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THE 



POETICAL WORKS 

OF THE LATE 

THOMAS LITTLE, ESQ. 



LUSISSE PUDET. HOR. 

Tad £<=r' tiveipiov veorspiov (pavratTfiara, owv Xrjpog. 

Metroc. ap. Diog. Laert. Lib. vi. cap. & 




Sixteenth lEtutton. 



LONDON: 
PRINTED FOR JAMES CARPENTER AND SON, 

OLD BOND STREET; 
BY C. WHITTINGHAM, CHISWICK. 



1833. 






0% v? 



PREFACE, 



BY 



THE EDITOR. 



The Poems which I take the liberty of 
publishing were never intended by the 
Author to pass beyond the circle of his 
friends. He thought, with some justice, 
that what are called Occasional Poems 
must be always insipid and uninteresting 
to the greater part of their readers. The 
particular situations in which they were 
written ; the character of the author and 



VI PREFACE. 

of his associates; all these peculiarities 
must be known and felt before we can 
enter into the spirit of such compositions. 
This consideration would have always, 
I believe, prevented Mr. Little from 
submitting these trifles of the moment 
to the eye of dispassionate criticism : 
and if their posthumous introduction to 
the world be injustice to his memory, or 
intrusion on the public, the error must 
be imputed to the injudicious partiality 
of friendship. 

Mr. Little died in his one and 
twentieth year ; and most of these Poems 
were written at so early a period that 
their errors may claim some indulgence 
from the critic : their author, as unam- 
bitious as indolent, scarce ever looked 



PREFACE. Vll 

beyond the moment of composition ; he 
wrote as he pleased, careless whether he 
pleased as he wrote. It may likewise 
be remembered, that they were all the 
productions of an age when the passions 
very often give a colouring too warm to 
the imagination; and this may palliate, 
if it cannot excuse, that air of levity 
which pervades so many of them. The 
" aurea legge, sei piace ei lice," he too 
much pursued, and too much inculcates. 
Few can regret this more sincerely than 
myself; and if my friend had lived, the 
judgment of riper years would have 
chastened his mind, and tempered the 
luxuriance of his fancy. 

Mr. Little gave much of his time to 
the study of the amatory writers. If 



Vlll PREFACE. 



ever he expected to find in the ancients 
that delicacy of sentiment and variety of 
fancy, which are so necessary to refine 
and animate the poetry of love, he was 
much disappointed. I know not any one 
of them who can be regarded as a model 
in that style; Ovid made love like a 
rake, and Propertius like a schoolmaster. 
The mythological allusions of the latter 
are called erudition by his commentators ; 
but such ostentatious display, upon a 
subject so simple as love, would be now 
esteemed vague and puerile, and was 
even in his own times pedantic. It is 
astonishing that so many critics have 
preferred him to the pathetic Tibullus; 
but I believe the defects which a common 
reader condemns have been looked upon 
rather as beauties by those erudite men, 



PREFACE. IX 

the commentators ; who find the field for 
their ingenuity and research, in his Gre- 
cian learning and quaint obscurities. 

Tibullus abounds with touches of fine 
and natural feeling. The idea of his un- 
expected return to Delia, " Tunc veniam 
subito # ," &c. is imagined with all the 
delicate ardour of a lover ; and the sen- 
timent of "nee te posse carere velim," 
however colloquial the expression may 
have been, is natural, and from the heart. 
But, in my opinion, the poet of Verona 
possessed more genuine feeling than any 
of them. His life was, I believe, unfor- 
tunate; his associates were wild and 
abandoned; and the warmth of his nature 

* Lib. i. Eleff. 3. 



X PREFACE. 

took too much advantage of the latitude 
which the morals of those times so crimi- 
nally allowed to the passions. All this 
depraved his imagination, and made it 
the slave of his senses : but still a native 
sensibility is often very warmly percep- 
tible ; and when he touches on pathos, 
he reaches the heart immediately. They 
who have felt the sweets of return to a 
home from which they have long been 
absent will confess the beauty of those 
simple unaffected lines: 

O quid solutis est beatius curis ! 
Cum mens onus reponit, ac peregrino 
Lahore fessi venimus Larem ad nostrum 
Desideratoque acquiescimus leeto. 

Carm. xxxii. 

His sorrows on the death of his brother 
are the very tears of poesy ; and when 



PREFACE. XI 

he complains of the ingratitude of man- 
kind, even the inexperienced cannot but 
sympathize with him. I wish I were a 
poet; I should endeavour to catch, by 
translation, the spirit of those beauties 
which I admire so warmly # . 

It seems to have been peculiarly the 
fate of Catullus, that the better and 
more valuable part of his poetry has not 
reached us; for there is confessedly 
nothing in his extant works to authorize 
the epithet "doctus," so universally be- 
stowed upon him by the ancients. If 
time had suffered the rest to escape, we 

* In the following Poems, there is a translation 
of one of his finest Carmina ; but I fancy it is 
only a schoolboy's essay, and deserves to be 
praised for little more than the attempt. 



XU PREFACE. 

perhaps should have found among them 
some more purely amatory ; but of those 
we possess, can there be a sweeter speci- 
men of warm, yet chastened description 
than his loves of Acme and Septimius ? 
and the few little songs of dalliance to 
Lesbia are distinguished by such an ex- 
quisite playfulness, that they have always 
been assumed as models by the most 
elegant modern Latinists. Still, I must 
confess, in the midst of these beauties, 

Medio de fonte leporum 

Surgitamarialiquid^quod in ipsis floribus angat*. 

It has often been remarked, that the 
ancients knew nothing of gallantry ; and 
we are told there was too much sincerity 

* Lucretius. 



PREFACE. XIU 

in their love to allow them to trifle with 
the semblance of passion. But I cannot 
perceive that they were any thing more 
constant than the moderns : they felt all 
the same dissipation of the heart, though 
they knew not those seductive graces by 
which gallantry almost teaches it to be 
amiable. Wotton, the learned advocate 
for the moderns, deserts them in consi- 
dering this point of comparison, and 
praises the ancients for their ignorance 
of such a refinement ; but he seems to 
have collected his notions of gallantry 
from the insipid fadeurs of the French 
romances, which are very unlike the sen- 
timental levity, the " grata proter vitas/' 
of a Rochester or a Sedley. 

From what I have had an opportunity 



XIV PREFACE. 

of observing, the early poets of our own 
language were the models which Mr. 
Little selected for imitation. To attain 
their simplicity (asvo rarissima nostro 
simplicitas) was his fondest ambition* 
He could not have aimed at a grace more 
difficult of attainment * ; and his life was 
of too short a date to allow him to 
perfect such a taste; but how far he was 
likely to have succeeded, the critic may 
judge from his productions. 



* It is a curious illustration of the labour 
which simplicity requires, that the Ramblers of 
Johnson, elaborate as they appear, were written 
with fluency, and seldom required revision; while 
the simple language of Rousseau, which seems 
to come flowing from the heart, was the slow 
production of painful labour, pausing on every 
word, and balancing every sentence. 



PREFACE. XV 

I have found among his papers a 
novel, -in rather an imperfect state, 
which, as soon as I have arranged and 
collected it, shall be submitted to the 
public eye. 

Where Mr. Little was born, or what 
is the genealogy of his parents, are 
points in which very few readers can be 
interested. His life was one of those 
humble streams which have scarcely a 
name in the map of life, and the travel- 
ler may pass it by without inquiring its 
source or direction. His character was 
well known to all who were acquainted 
with him ; for he had too much vanity 
to hide its virtues, and not enough of art 
to conceal its defects. The lighter traits 
of his mind may be traced perhaps in 



XVI PREFACE. 

his writings ; but the few for which he 
was valued live only in the remembrance 
of his friends. 

T. M. 



J. AT— NS-N, Esq. 



MY DEAR SIR, 

I feel a very sincere pleasure in 
dedicating to you the Second Edition of 
our friend Little's Poems. I am not 
unconscious that there are many in the 
collection which perhaps it would be 
prudent to have altered or omitted ; and, 
to say the truth, I more than once revised 
them for that purpose ; but, I know not 
why, I distrusted either my heart or my 
judgment; and the consequence is, you 
have them in their original form : 

Non possunt nostros multse, Faustine, liturae 
Emend are jocos ; una litura potest. 

b 



XV111 DEDICATION. 

I am convinced, however, that though 
not quite a casuiste reldche you have 
charity enough to forgive such inoffen- 
sive follies : you know the pious Beza 
was not the less revered for those sportive 
juvenilia which he published under a 
fictitious name ; nor did the levity of 
Bembo's poems prevent him from making 
a very good cardinal. 

Believe me, my dear friend, 

With the truest esteem, 

Yours, 

T. M. 

April 19, 1802. 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

To Julia. In Allusion to some illiberal Criticisms. 1 
To a Lady. With some manuscript Poems. On 

Leaving the Country 3 

To Mrs. . " If in the dream that hovers" .... 5 

To the large and beautiful Miss . In Allu- 
sion to some Partnership in a Lottery Share. 

Impromptu 6 

To Julia. " Well, Julia, if to love and live" 7 

Inconstancy 8 

Imitation of Catullus. To himself 9 

Epigram 12 

To Julia. " Though Fate, my girl, may bid us part" 1 3 

Song. " Sweet seducer ! blandly smiling" 15 

Nature's Labels. A Fragment 16 



XX CONTENTS. 

Page 

To Mrs. M . " Sweet lady ! look not thus again" 19 

Song. " Why, the world are all thinking about it" . 21 
To Julia. " Mock me no more w T ith love's beguiling 

dream" 22 

Impromptu 23 

To Rosa. " Does the harp of Rosa slumber" .... 24 

Sympathy. To Julia 25 

Piety 27 

To Julia. " I saw the peasant's hand unkind" ... 28 

To Mrs. , " Yes, I think I once heard of an 

amorous youth" 29 

On the Death of a Lady 31 

To Julia. " Sweet is the dream, divinely sweet" . . 32 

To . " Can I again that form caress" 33 

Written on the blank Leaf of a Lady's Commonplace 

Book.... 34 

Song. " Away with this pouting and sadness" .... 35 

To Rosa. " Like one who trusts to summer skies" 37 
To Rosa. " Oh ! why should the girl of my soul be 

in tears" 38 






CONTENTS. XXI 

Page 

Rondeau 39 

An Argument to any Phillis or Chloe 40 

To Rosa. Written during Illness 41 

Anacreontique 44 

Anacreontique 45 

" Oh woman ! if by simple wile" 46 

Love and Marriage 47 

The Kiss ; 49 

To Miss . On her asking the Author why she 

had sleepless Nights 50 

Nonsense 52 

To Julia. On her Birthday 53 

Elegiac Stanzas , 54 

To Rosa. " And are you then a thing of art" .... 55 

Love in a Storm 57 

Song. " Jessy on a bank was sleeping" 58 

The Surprise 58 

To a sleeping Maid 59 

To Phillis 59 

Song. " When the heart's feeling" 60 



XX11 CONTENTS. 

Page 

The Ballad 61 

To Mrs. . On her beautiful Translation of 

Voiture's Kiss 63 

To a Lady. On her Singing 64 

A Dream 65 

Written in a Commonplace Book, called "The Book 

of Follies ;" in which every one that opened it 

should contribute something 65 

Written in the same. To the pretty little Mrs. . 

Impromptu 68 

Song. " Dear ! in pity do not speak" 69 

The Tear 70 

To . " So Rosa turns her back on me" .. . 71 

To Julia, weeping 73 

Song. " Have you not seen the timid tear" 74 

The Shield 75 

To Mrs. . "Yes, Heaven can witness how I 

strove" 77 

Elegiac Stanzas. Supposed to be written by Julia 

on the Death of her Brother 81 






CONTENTS. XX111 

Page 

Fanny of Timmol. A Mail Coach Adventure. ... 84 

A Night Thought. 87 

Elegiac Stanzas 88 

The Kiss 89 

To . " With all my soul, then, let us part" 90 

A Reflection at Sea 93 

An Invitation to Supper. To Mrs. 94 

An Ode upon Morning 98 

Song. " Oh ! nothing in life can sadden us" 100 

" Come, tell me where the maid is found" 103 

Song. " Sweetest love ! I'll not forget thee" 104 

Song. " If I swear by that eye, you'll allow" .... 106 

Julia's Kiss 108 

To . " Remember him thou leav'st behind" 110 

Song. " Fly from the world, oh Bessy! to me"... 113 

Song. " Think on that look of humid ray" 115 

Song. " A captive thus to thee, my girl" 116 

The Catalogue 117 

A Fragment. To 120 

Song. " Where is the nymph, whose azure eye".. 122 



XXIV CONTENTS. 

Page 

Song. "When Time, who steals our years away" 123 

The Shrine. To 125 

Reuben and Rose. A Tale of Romance 126 

The Ring. A Tale 131 

Song. On the Birthday of Mrs. . Written in 

Ireland 1 45 

To a Boy with a w T atch. Written for a Friend 148 

Fragments of College Exercises 1 50 

" Is there no call, no consecrating cause" 152 

Song. " Mary, I believ'd thee true" 153 

Song. " Why does azure deck the sky" 155 

The natal Genius. A Dream. To , the Morn- 
ing of her Birthday 157 

Morality. A familiar Epistle. Addressed to Joseph 

At— ns— n, Esq. M. R. I. A 159 



POEMS. 



TO JULIA. 

IN ALLUSION TO SOME ILLIBERAL CRITICISMS, 



Why, let the stingless critic chide 
With all that fume of vacant pride 
Which mantles o'er the pedant fool, 
Like vapour on a stagnant pool ! 
Oh ! if the song, to feeling true, 
Can please th' elect, the sacred few, 
Whose souls, by Taste and Nature taught, 
Thrill with the genuine pulse of thought—^ 
If some fond feeling maid like thee, 
The warm-ey'd child of Sympathy, 
Shall say, while o'er my simple theme 
She languishes in Passion's dream, 

B 



POEMS. 

" He was, indeed, a tender soul — 
" No critic law, no chill control, 
" Should ever freeze, by timid art, 
" The flowings of so fond a heart!" 
Yes, soul of Nature ! soul of Love ! 
That, hov'ring like a snow-wing' d dove, 
Breathed o'er my cradle warblings wild, 
And hail'd me Passion's warmest child ! 
Grant me the tear from Beauty's eye, 
From Feeling's breast the votive sigh ; 
Oh ! let my song, my mem'ry, find 
A shrine within the tender mind; 
And I will scorn the critic's chide, 
And I will scorn the fume of pride 
Which mantles o'er the pedant fool, 
Like vapour on a stagnant pool ! 



POEMS. 

TO A LADY, 

WITH SOME MANUSCRIPT POEMS. 
ON LEAVING THE COUNTRY. 



When, casting many a look behind, 
I leave the friends I cherish here — 

Perchance some other friends to find, 
But surely finding none so dear — 

Haply the little simple page, 

Which votive thus Pve trac'd for thee, 
May now and then a look engage, 

And steal a moment's thought for me. 

But, oh! in pity let not those 

Whose hearts are not of gentle mould, 
Let not the eye that seldom flows 

With feeling tear, my song behold. 



POEMS. 

For, trust me, they who never melt 
With pity, never melt with love ; 

And they will frown at all I've felt. 
And all my loving lays reprove. 

But if, perhaps, some gentler mind, 

Which rather loves to praise than blame, 

Should in my page an interest find, 
And linger kindly on my name ; 

Tell him, — or, oh ! if, gentler still, 
By female lips my name be blest: 

Ah ! where do all affections thrill 
So sweetly as in woman's breast ? — 

Tell her, that he whose loving themes 
Her eye indulgent wanders o'er, 

Could sometimes wake from idle dreams, 
And bolder flights of fancy soar ; 

That Glory oft would claim the lay, 
And Friendship oft his numbers move ; 

But whisper then, that, " sooth to say, 
" His sweetest song- was on v'n to Love 1" 



POEMS. 



TO MRS. 



If, in the dream that hovers 
Around my sleeping mind, 

Fancy thy form discovers, 

And paints thee melting kind ; 

If joys from sleep I borrow, 
Sure thou'lt forgive me this ; 

For he who wakes to sorrow, 
At least may dream of bliss ! 

Oh ! if thou art, in seeming, 
All that Pve e'er required ; 

Oh ! if I feel, in dreaming, 
All that Pve e'er desir'd ; 

Wilt thou forgive my taking 
A kiss, or — something more ? 

What thou deny'st me waking. 
Oh ! let me slumber o'er ! 



POEMS> 



TO THE LARGE AND BEAUTIFUL 



MISS 



IN ALLUSION TO SOME PARTNERSHIP IN A LOTTERY SHARE. 



IMPROMPTU. 



- Ego pars Virg. 



In wedlock a species of lottery lies. 

Where in blanks and in prizes we deal; 

But how comes it that you, such a capital prize? 
Should so long have remain 9 d in the wheel t 

If ever, by Fortune's indulgent decree, 

To rne such a ticket should roll, 
A sixteenth,Heax'n knows! were sufficient forme; 

For what could I do with the ivholeP 



POEMS. 



TO JULIA. 



Well, Julia, if to love, and live 
Micl all the pleasures love can give, 

Be crimes that bring damnation ; 
You— you and I have giv'n such scope 
To loves and joys, we scarce can hope, 

In Heav'n, the least salvation ! 

And yet, I think, did Heav'n design 
That blisses dear, like yours and mine, 

Should be our own undoing ; 
It had not made my soul so warm, 
Nor giv'n you such a witching form, 

To bid me dote on ruin ! 

Then wipe away that timid tear ; 
Sweet truant ! you have nought to fear, 

Though you were whelm' d in sin ; 
Stand but at Heaven's gate awhile, 
And you so like an angel smile, 

They can't but let you in. 



POEMS. 



INCONSTANCY. 



And do I then wonder that Julia deceives me, 

When surely there's nothing in nature more 

common ? 

She vows to be true, and while vowing she leaves 

me — 

But could I expect any more from a woman ? 

Oh, woman ! your heart is a pitiful treasure ; 

And Mahomet's doctrine was not too severe, 
When he thought you were only materials of 
pleasure, 
And reason and thinking were out of your 
sphere. 

By your heart, when the fond sighing lover can 
win it, 
He thinks that an age of anxiety's paid ; 
But, oh ! while he's blest, let him die on the 
minute — 
If he live but a day, he'll be surely betray 'ch 



POEMS. 



IMITATION OF CATULLUS*. 

TO HIMSELF. 



Miser Catulle, desinas ineptire, &c. 



Cease the sighing fool to play ; 
Cease to trifle life away ; 
Nor vainly think those joys thine own, 
Which all, alas! have falsely flown! 
What hours, Catullus, once were thine, 
How fairly seem'd thy day to shine, 
When lightly thou didst fly to meet 
The girl who smiPd so rosy sweet — 
The girl thou lovMst with fonder pain 
Than e'er thy heart can feel again ! 



* Few poets knew better than Catullus what a French 

writer calls 

la delicatesse 

D'un voluptueux sentiment; 

but his passions too often obscured his imagination. E. 



10 POEMS. 

You met — your souls seem'd all in one — 
Sweet little sports were said and done — 
Thy heart was warm enough for both, 
And hers, indeed, was nothing loath, 
Such were the hours that once were thine ; 
But, ah ! those hours no longer shine ! 
For now the nymph delights no more 
In what she lov'd so dear before ; 
And all Catullus now can do, 
Is to be proud and frigid too ; 
Nor follow where the wanton flies, 
Nor sue the bliss that she denies. 
False maid ! he bids farewell to thee, 
To love, and all love's misery. 
The heyday of his heart is o'er, 
Nor will he court one favour more ; 
But soon he'll see thee droop thy head, 
Doom'd to a lone and loveless bed, 
When none will seek the happy night, 
Or come to traffic in delight ! 
Fly, perjur'd girl ! — but whither fly ? 
Who now will praise thy cheek and eye ? 
Who now will drink the syren tone, 
Which tells him thou art all his own ? 






POEMS. 11 

Who now will court thy wild delights, 
Thy honey kiss, and turtle bites ? 
Oh ! none. — And he who lov'd before 
Can never, never love thee more 1 



12 POEMS. 



J 



EPIGRAM*. 



Your mother says, my little Venus, 
There's something not correct between us, 

And you're in fault as much as I : 
Now, on my soul, my little Venus, 
I think *twould not be right between us, 

To let your mother tell a lie ! 



* I believe this epigram is originally French. E. 



POEMS. 13 



TO JULIA. 



Though Fate, my girl, may bid us part, 
Our souls it cannot, shall not sever ; 

The heart will seek its kindred heart, 
And cling to it as close as ever. 

But must we, must we part indeed ? 

Is all our dream of rapture over P 
And does not Julia's bosom bleed 

To leave so dear, so fond a lover P 

Does she too mourn P — Perhaps she may ; 

Perhaps she weeps our blisses fleeting : 
But why is Julia's eye so gay, 

If Julia's heart like mine is beating ? 

I oft have lov'd the brilliant glow 

Of rapture in her blue eye streaming — ■ 

But can the bosom bleed with woe, 
While joy is in the glances beaming ? 



14 POEMS. 

Nbj no ! — Yet, love, I will not chide, 

Although your heart were fond of roving : 

Nor that, nor all the world beside 

Could keep your faithful boy from loving, 

You'll soon be distant from his eye, 

And, with you, all that's worth possessing. 

Oh ! then it will be sweet to die, 
When life has lost its only blessing ! 



POEMS. 15 



SONG. 



Sweet seducer ! blandly smiling- ; 
Charming- still, and still beguiling ! 
Oft I swore to love thee never, 
Yet I love thee more than ever ! 

Why that little wanton blushing, 
Glancing eye, and bosom flushing ? 
Flushing warm, and wily glancing— 
All is lovely, all entrancing ? 

Turn away those lips of blisses — 
I am poison' d by thy kisses ! 
Yet, again, ah ! turn them to me : 
Ruin's sweet, when they undo me ! 

Oh ! be less, be less enchanting ; 
Let some little grace be wanting ; 
Let my eyes, when Pm expiring, 
Gaze awhile without admiring ! 



16 POEMS. 



NATURE'S LABELS. 



A FRAGMENT, 



In vain we fondly strive to trace 

The souTs reflection in the face ; 

In vain we dwell On lines and crosses, 

Crooked mouth, or short proboscis ; 

Boobies have look'd as wise and bright 

As Plato or the Stagirite : 

And many a sage and learned skull 

Has peep'd through windows dark and dull ! 

Since then, though art do all it can^ 

We ne'er can reach the inward man, 

Nor inward woman, from without 

(Though, ma'am, you smile, as if in doubt), 

I think 'twere well if Nature could 

(And Nature could, if Nature would) 

Such pretty short descriptions write, 

In tablets large, in black and white> 



POEMS. 17 

Which she might hang about our throttles, 
Like labels upon physic-bottles. 
There we might read of all — But stay- 
As learned dialectics say, 
The argument most apt and ample 
For common use is the example. 
For instance, then, if Nature's care 
Had not arranged those traits so fair, 
Which speak the soul of Lucy L-nd-n, 
This is the label she'd have pinn'd on. 

LABEL FIRST^ r 

Within this vase there lies enshrin'd 

The purest, brightest gem of mind ! 

Though Feeling's hand may sometimes throw 

Upon its charms the shade of woe, 

The lustre of the gem, when veil'd, 

Shall be but mellow'd, not conceal'd. 



Now, sirs, imagine, if you're able, 
That Nature wrote a second label, 
They're her own words — at least suppose so- 
And boldly pin it on Pomposo. 



IS POEMS. 



LABEL SECOND. 



When I composed the fustian brain 
Of this redoubted Captain Vain, 
I had at hand but few ingredients, 
And so was forc'd to use expedients, 
I put therein some small discerning, 
A grain of sense, a grain of learning ; 
And when I saw the void behind, 
I filPd it up with — froth and wind ! 



POEMS. 19 



TO MRS. M- 



Sweet lady ! look not thus again : 
Those little pouting smiles recall 

A maid remembered now with pain, 
Who was my love, my life, my all ! 

Oh ! while this heart delirious took 
Sweet poison from her thrilling eye, 

Thus would she pout, and lisp, and look, 
And I would hear, and gaze, and sigh ! 

Yes, I did love her — madly love — 
She was the sweetest, best deceiver ! 

And oft she swore she'd never rove 1 
And I was destin'd to believe her ! 



20 poems. 

Then, lady, do not wear the smile 
Of her whose smile could thus betray. 

Alas ! I think the lovely wile 

Again might steal my heart away. 

And when the spell that stole my mind 
On lips so pure as thine I see, 

I fear the heart which she resign' d 
Will err again, and fly to thee ! 



POEMS. 21 



SONG. 



Why, the world are all thinking about it ; 

And, as for myself, I can swear, 
If I fancied that heav'n were without it, 

Pd scarce feel a wish to go there. 

If Mahomet would but receive me, 
And Paradise be as he paints, 

Pm greatly afraid, God forgive me ! 
Pd worship the eyes of his saints. 

But why should I think of a trip 
To the Prophet's seraglio above, 

When Phillida gives me her lip, 
As my own little heaven of love ! 

Oh Phillis ! that kiss may be sweeter 
Than ever by mortal was given ; 

But your lip, love, is only St. Peter, 
And keeps but the key to your heaven ! 



22 POEMS. 



TO JULIA. 



Mock me no more with Love's beguiling dream, 
A dream, I find, illusory as sweet : 

One smile of friendship, nay, of cold esteem, 
Is dearer far than passion's bland deceit ! 

I've heard you oft eternal truth declare; 

Your heart was only mine, I once belie v'd. 
Ah ! shall I say that all your vows were air ! 

And must I say, my hopes were all deceived ? 

Vow, then, no longer that our souls are twin'd, 
That all our joys are felt with mutual zeal ; 

Julia ! 'tis pity, pity makes you kind ; 

You know I love, and you would seem to feel. 

But shall I still go revel in those arms 
On bliss in which affection takes no part ? 

No, no ! farewell ! you give me but your charms, 
When I had fondly thought you gave your heart ! 



POEMS. 23 



IMPROMPTU. 



Look in my eyes, my blushing- fair 1 

Thou' It see thyself reflected there ; 

And, as I gaze on thine, I see 

Two little miniatures of me. 
Thus in our looks some propagation lies, 
For we make babies in each other's eyes ! 



24 POEMS, 



TO ROSA. 



Does the harp of Rosa slumber? 
Once it breathed the sweetest number ! 
Never does a wilder song 
Steal the breezy lyre along 1 , 
When the wind, in odours dying, 
Wooes it with enamoured sighing. 

Does the harp of Rosa cease ? 
Once it told a tale of peace 
To her lover's throbbing breast — 
Then he was divinely blest ! 
Ah ! but Rosa loves no more, 
Therefore Rosa's song is o'er ; 
And her harp neglected lies ; 
And her boy forgotten sighs. 
Silent harp — forgotten lover — 
Rosa's love and song are over ! 



POEMS. 25 



SYMPATHY. 

TO JULIA. 



• sine me sit nulla Venus. Sulpicia. 



Our hearts, my love, were doom'd to be 
The genuine twins of Sympathy : 

They live with one sensation : 
In joy or grief, but most in love, 
Our heart-strings musically move, 

And thrill with like vibration. 

How often have I heard thee say, 
Thy vital pulse shall cease to play 

When mine no more is moving ! 
Since, now, to feel a joy alone 
Were worse to thee than feeling none: 

Such sympathy in loving ! 



26 



POEMS. 



And, oh ! how often in those eyes, 
Which melting beam'd like azure skies 

In dewy vernal weather — 
How often have I rapturM read 
The burning- glance, that silent said, 

"Now, love, we feel together I" 



POEMS. 27 



PIETY. 



"Sue, the pretty nun, 

Prays with warm emotion ; 
Sweetly rolls her eyes 

In love or in devotion. 

If her pious heart 

Softens to relieve you, 
She gently shares the fault, 

With, " Oh ! may God forgive you !" 



28 POEMS. 



TO JULIA. 



I saw the peasant's hand unkind 
From yonder oak the ivy sever ; 

They seernM in very being twin'd ; 
Yet now the oak is fresh as ever ! 

Not so the widow'd ivy shines : 
Torn from its dear and only stay, 

In drooping widowhood it pines, 
And scatters all its blooms away ! 

Tims, Julia, did our hearts entwine, 
Till Fate disturbed their tender ties : 

Thus gay indifference blooms in thine, 
While mine, deserted, droops and dies ! 



POEMS. 29 



v TO MRS. 



amore 

In canuti pensier si disconvene. Guarini, 



Yes, I think I once heard of an amorous youth 
Who was caught in his grandmother's bed ; 

But I own I had ne'er such a liquorish tooth 
As to wish to be there in his stead. 

'Tis for you, my dear madam, such conquests to 
make; 

Antiquarians may value you high : 
But I swear I can't love for antiquity's sake, 

Such a poor virtuoso am I. 

I have seen many ruins all gilded with care, 
But the cracks were still plain to the eye ; 

And I ne'er felt a passion to venture in there, 
But turn'd up my nose, and pass'd by ! 



30 POEMS. 

I perhaps might have sigh'd in your magical chain 
When your lip had more freshness to deck it ; 

But I'd hate even Dian herself in the wane — 
She might then go to hell for a Hecate ! 

No, no ! when my heart's in these amorous faints, 
Which is seldom, thank Heaven ! the case ! 

For by reading the Fathers, and Lives of the Saints, 
I keep up a stock of good grace : 

But then 'tis the creature luxuriant and fresli 
That my passion with ecstasy owns ; 

For indeed, my dear madam, though fond of the 
flesh, 
I never was partial to bones / , 



POEMS. 31 



ON THE 

DEATH OF A LADY. 



Sweet spirit ! if thy airy sleep 
Nor sees my tears nor hears my sighs, 

Oh ! I will weep, in luxury weep, 

Till the last heart's drop fills mine eyes. 

But if thy sainted soul can feel, 

And mingles in our misery ; 
Then, then my breaking heart I'll seal — 

Thou shalt not hear one sigh from me ! 

The beam of morn was on the stream, 
But sullen clouds the day deform : 

Thou wert, indeed, that morning beam, 
And death, alas ! that sullen storm. 

Thou wert not formed for living here, 
For thou wert kindred with the sky ; 

Yet, yet we held thee all so dear, 

We thought thou wert not form'd to die. 



32 POEMS. 



TO JULIA. 



Sweet is the dream, divinely sweet, 
When absent souls in fancy meet ! — 
At midnight, love ! Pll think of thee ! 
At midnight, love ! oh, think of me : 
Think that thou giv'st thy dearest kiss, 
And I will think I feel the bliss. 
Then, if thou blush, that blush be mine ; 
And, if I weep, the tear be thine ! 



POEMS. 33 



TO 



Can I again that form caress, 
Or on that lip in rapture twine ? 

No, no ! the lip that all may press 
Shall never more be press'd by mine. 

Can I again that look recall 

Which once could make me die for thee ? 
No, no ! the eye that burns on all 

Shall never more be priz'd by me ! 



34 POEMS. 



WRITTEN IN THE BLANK LEAF 



A LADY'S COMMONPLACE BOOK. 



Here is one leaf reserved for me, 
From all thy sweet memorials free ; 
And here my simple song might tell 
The feelings thou must guess so well. 
But could I thus, within thy mind, 
One little vacant corner find, 
Where no impression yet is seen, 
Where no memorial yet has been, 
Oh ! it should be my sweetest care 
To write my name for ever there ! 



POEMS. 35 



SONG. 



Away with this pouting and sadness ! 

Sweet girl ! will you never give o'er ? 
I love you, by Heaven ! to madness, 

And what can I swear to you more ? 
Believe not the old woman's fable, 

That oaths are as short as a kiss; 
I'll love you as long as I'm able, 

And swear for no longer than this. 

Then waste not the time with professions ; 

For not to be bless'd when we can 
Is one of the darkest transgressions 

That happen 'twixt woman and man. — 
Pretty moralist ! why thus beginning 

My innocent warmth to reprove ? 
Heav'n knows that I never lov'd sinning— 

Except little sinnings in love ! 



36 POEMS. 

If swearing, however, will do it, 

Come bring me the calendar, pray — 
I vow, by that lip, Pll go through it, 

And not miss a saint on my way. 
The angels shall help me to wheedle ; 

I'll swear upon every one 
That e'er danc'd on the point of a needle*, 

Or rode on a beam of the sun ! 

Oh ! why should Platonic control, love, 

Enchain an emotion so free ? 
Your soul, though a very sweet soul, love, 

Will ne'er be sufficient for me. 
If you think, by this coolness and scorning, 

To seem more angelic and bright, 
Be an angel, my love, in the morning, 

But, oh ! be a ivoman to-night ! 



* I believe Mr. Little alluded here to a famous question 
among the early schoolmen : "How many thousand angels 
could dance on the point of a very fine needle, without jost- 
ling one another ?' If he could have been thinking of the 
schools while he was writing this song, we cannot say *' canit 
indoctum" 



POEMS. 37 



TO ROSA. 



Like who trusts to summer skies, 
And puts his little bark to sea, 

Is he who, lur'd by smiling eyes, 
Consigns his simple heart to thee. 

For fickle is the summer wind, 
And sadly may the bark be tost ; 

For thou art sure to change thy mind, 
And then the wretched heart is lost ! 



38 POEMS. 



TO ROSA. 



Oh ! why should the girl of my soul be in tears 

At a meeting of rapture like this, 
When the glooms of the past and the sorrow of 
years 

Have been paid by a moment of bliss ? 

Are they shed for that moment of blissful delight, 
Which dwells on her memory yet ? 

Do they flow, like the dews of the amorous night, 
From the warmth of the sun that has set ? 

Oh ! sweet is the tear on that languishing smile, 
That smile, which is loveliest then ; 

And if such are the drops that delight can beguile, 
Thou sbalt weep them again and again ! 






POEMS. 39 



RONDEAU. 



" Good night ! good night !" — And is it so ? 

And must I from my Rosa go ? 

Oh Rosa ! say "Good night !" once more, 

And Pll repeat it o'er and o'er, 

Till the first glance of dawning light 

Shall find us saying, still, " Good night !" 

And still " Good night," my Rosa, say — 

But whisper still, " A minute stay ;" 

And I will stay, and every minute 

Shall have an age of rapture in it. 

We'll kiss and kiss in quick delight, 

And murmur, while we kiss, "Good night !" 

" Good night !" you'll murmur with a sigh, 

And tell me it is time to fly : 

And I will vow to kiss no more, 

Yet kiss you closer than before; 

Till slumber seal our weary sight — 

And then, my love ! my soul ! " Good night !" 



40 POEMS. 



AN ARGUMENT 



TO ANY PHILLIS OR CHLOE. 



Pve oft been told by learned friars, 
That wishing and the crime are one, 

And Heaven punishes desires 

As much as if the deed were done. 

If wishing damns us, you and I 

Are damn'd to all our heart's content ; 

Come, then, at least we may enjoy 
Some pleasure for our punishment I 



POEMS. 41 



TO ROSA. 



WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS. 



The wisest soul, by anguish torn, 
Will soon unlearn the lore it knew ; 

And when the shrining' casket's worn, 
The gem within will tarnish too. 

But love's an essence of the soul, 

Which sinks not with this chain of clay ; 

Which throbs beyond the chill control 
Of with'ring pain or pale decay. 

And surely, when the touch of Death 
Dissolves the spirit's mortal ties, 

Love still attends the soaring breath, 
And makes it purer for the skies ! 



42 POEMS. 

Oh Rosa ! when, to seek its sphere, 
My soul shall leave this orb of men, 

That love it found so blissful here 
Shall be its best of blisses then ! 

And as, in fabled dreams of old, 
Some airy genius, child of time, 

Presided o'er each star that roll'd, 

And track' d it through its path sublime; 

So thou, fair planet, not unled, 

Shalt through thy mortal orbit stray ; 

Thy lover's shade, divinely wed, 

Shall linger round thy wand'ring way. 

Let other spirits range the sky, 
And brighten in the solar gem ; 

I'll bask beneath that lucid eye, 
Nor envy worlds of suns to them ! 

And, oh ! if airy shapes may steal 
To mingle with a mortal frame, 

Then, then, my love ! — but drop the veil ; 
Hide, hide from Heav'n the unholy flame. 






POEMS. 43 

No ! — when that heart shall cease to beat, 
And when that breath at length is free ; 

Then, Rosa, soul to soul we'll meet, 
And mingle to eternity ! 



44 POEMS. 



ANACREONTIQUE. 



• in lachrymas verterat omne meram. 

Tib. Lib. i. eleg. 5. 



Press the grape, and let it pour 
Around the board its purple shower; 
And, while the drops my goblet steep, 
Pll think — in woe the clusters weep. 

Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine ! 
Heaven grant no tears, but tears of wine. 
Weep on ; and, as thy sorrows flow, 
Pll taste the luxury of woe ! 



POEMS. 45 



ANACHEONTIQUE. 



Friend of my soul ! this goblet sip, 

'Twill chase that pensive tear; 
'Tis not so sweet as woman's lip, 
But, oh ! 'tis more sincere. 
Like her delusive beam, 

'Twill steal away thy mind : 
But, like affection's dream, 
It leaves no sting behind ! 

Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade ; 

These flow'rs were cull'd at noon ; — 
Like woman's love the rose will fade, 
But, ah ! not half so soon ! 

For though the flower's decay'd, 

Its fragrance is not o'er ; 
But once when love's betray'd, 
The heart can bloom no more ! 



46 POEMS. 



Neither do I condemn thee: go, and sin no more!" 

St. John, chap. viii. 



Oh, woman ! if by simple wile 

Thy soul has stray' d from honour's track, 
'Tis mercy only can beguile, 

By gentle ways, the wanderer back. 

The stain that on thy virtue lies, 

Wash'd by thy tears, may yet decay ; 

As clouds that sully morning skies 
May all be wept in show'rs away. 

Go, go — be innocent, and live — 

The tongues of men may wound thee sore; 
But Heav'n in pity can forgive, 

And bids thee " go, and sin no more !'* 



POEMS. 47 



LOVE AND MARRIAGE. 



Eque brevi verbo ferre perenne malum. 

Secundus, Eleg. vii. 



Still the question I must parry, 
Still a wayward truant prove : 

Where I love, I must not marry ; 
Where I marry, cannot love. 

Were she fairest of creation, 

With the least presuming- mind : 

Learned without affectation ; 
Not deceitful, yet refin'd ; 

Wise enough, but never rigid ; 

Gay, but not too lightly free ; 
Chaste as snow, and yet not frigid ; 

Warm, yet satisfied with me : 



48 POEMS. 

Were she all this ten times over,, 
All that heaven to earth allows, 

I should be too much her lover 
Ever to become her spouse. 

Love will never bear enslaving ; 

Summer garments suit him best; 
Bliss itself is not worth having, 

If we're by compulsion blest. 



POEMS. 49 



THE KISS. 



ilia nisi in lecto nusquam potuere doceri. 

Ovid. Lib. ii. Eleg. 5. 



Give me, my love, that billing kiss 

I taught you one delicious night, 
When, turning epicures in bliss, 

We tried inventions of delight. 

Come, gently steal my lips along, 
And let your lips in murmurs move.— 

Ah, no ! — again — that kiss was wrong, — 
How can you be so dull> my love ? 

" Cease, cease !" the blushing girl replied — 
And in her milky arms she caught me— 

w How can you thus your pupil chide ? 

You know Hwus in the dark you taught me !** 

E 



50 POEMS. 



TO MISS 



ON HER ASKING THE AUTHOR WHY SHE HAD SLEEPLESS 
NIGHTS? 



Pll ask the sylph who round thee flies, 
And in thy breath his pinion dips, 

Who suns him in thy lucent eyes, 
And faints upon thy sighing lips : 

Pll ask him whereas the veil of sleep 
That us'd to shade thy looks of light ; 

And why those eyes their vigil keep, 
When other suns are sunk in night ? 

And I will say — her angel breast 

Has never throbb'd with guilty sting ; 

Her bosom is the sweetest nest 

Where Slumber could repose his wing ! 



POEMS, 51 

And I will say — her cheeks of flame, 
Which glow like roses in the sun, 

Have never felt a blush of shame, 
Except for what her eyes have done ! 

Then tell me, why, thou child of air ! 

Does slumber from her eyelids rove ? 
What is her heart's impassion' d care ? — 

Perhaps, oh sylph ! perhaps, 'tis love P. 



52 POEMS. 



NONSENSE, 



Good reader ! if you e'er have seen, 

When Phoebus hastens to his pillow, 
The mermaids, with their tresses green, 

Dancing upon the western billow : 
If you have seen, at twilight dim, 
When the lone spirit's vesper hymn 

Floats wild along the winding shore : 
If you have seen, through mist of eve, 
The fairy train their ringlets weave, 
Glancing along the spangled green : — 

If you have seen all this, and more, 
God bless me ! what a deal you've seen ! 



POEMS. 53 



TO JULIA. 

ON HER BIRTHDAY. 



When Time was entwining the garland of years, 
Which to crown my beloved was given, 

Though some of the leaves might be sullied with 
tears, 
Yet the flow'rs were all gather'd in heaven ! 

And long may this garland be sweet to the eye, 

May its verdure for ever be new ! 
Young Love shall enrich it with many a sigh, 

And Pity shall nurse it with dew ! 



54 



POEMS. 



ELEGIAC STANZAS*, 



How sweetly could I lay my head 
Within the cold grave's silent breast ; 

Where Sorrow's tears no more are shed, 
Xo more the ills of life molest. 

For, ah ! my heart, how very soon 

The glitt'ring dreams of youth are past ! 

And, long before it reach its noon, 
The sun of life is overcast. 



* This poem, and some others of the same pensive cast, 
we may suppose, were the result of the few melancholy 
moments which a life so short and so pleasant as that of the 
author could have allowed. E. 



POEMS. 55 



TO ROSA. 



A far conserva, e cumulo d'amanti. Past. Fid. 



And are you then a thing of art, 
Seducing all, and loving none ; 

And have I strove to gain a heart 

Which every coxcomb thinks his own? 

And do you, like the dotard's fire, 
Which, pow'rless of enjoying any, 

Feeds its abortive sick desire, 

By trifling impotent with many ? 

Do you thus seek to flirt a number, 
And through a round of danglers run, 

Because your heart's insipid slumber 
Could never wake to feel for one? 



56 POEMS. 

Tell me at once if this be true, 

And I shall calm my jealous breast ; 

Shall learn to join the dangling crew, 
And share your simpers with the rest. 

But if your heart be not so free,— 
Oh ! if another share that heart, 

Tell not the damning tale to me, 
But mingle mercy with your art* 

I'd. rather think you black as hell, 
Than find you to be all divine, 

And know that heart could love so well, 
Yet know that heart would not be mine f 






POEMS. 57 



LOVE IN A STORM. 



Quam juvat immites ventos audire cubantem, 

Et dominam tenero continuisse sinu. Tibdllus. 



Loud sung the wind in the ruins above, 

Which murmured the warnings of Time o'er 
our head ; 

While fearless we offered devotions to Love, 
The rude rock our pillow, the rushes our bed. 

Damp was the chill of the wintry air, 

But it made us cling closer, and warmly unite ; 

Dread was the lightning, and horrid its glare, 
But it showM me my Julia in languid delight. 

To my bosom she nestled, and felt not a fear, 
Though the shower did beat, and the tempest 
did frown : 

Her sighs were as sweet, and her murmurs as dear 
As if she lay lulPd on a pillow of down ! 



POEMS. 



SONG. 



Jessy on a bank was sleeping, 
A flow'r beneath her bosom lay; 

Love, upon her slumber creeping, 
Stole the flow'r, and flew away ! 

Pity, then, poor Jessy's ruin, 

Who, becalm' d by Slumber's wing, 

Never felt what Love was doing — 
Never dream'd of such a thin^. 



THE SURPRISE. 



Chloris, I swear, by all I ever swore, 
That from this hour I shall not love thee more. — 
"What ! love no more? Oh! why this alter' d vow?" 
Because I cannot love thee more — than now ! 



POEMS. 69 



TO A SLEEPING MAID. 



Wake, my life ! thy lover's arms 
Are twinM around thy sleeping charms : 
Wake, my love ! and let desire 
Kindle those op'ning orbs of fire. 

Yet, sweetest, though the bliss delight thee, 
If the guilt, the shame affright thee, 
Still those orbs in darkness keep ; 
Sleep, my girl, or seem to sleep. 



TO PHILLIS. 



Phillis, you little rosy rake, 

That heart of yours I long to rifle : 

Come, give it me, and do not make 
So much ado about a trifle! 



60 POEMS. 



SONG. 



When the heart's feeling 

Burns with concealing, 
Glances will tell what we fear to confess : 

Oh ! what an anguish 

Silent to languish, 
Could we not look all we wish to express ! 

When half-expiring, 

Restless, desiring, 
Lovers wish something, but must not say what. 

Looks tell the wanting, 

Looks tell the granting, 
Looks betray all that the heart would be at. 



POEMS. 61 



THE BALLAD*. 



Thou hast sent me a flowery band, 

And told me 'twas fresh from the field ; 

That the leaves were untouch' d by the hand, 
And the purest of odours would yield. 

And indeed it was fragrant and fair ; 

But, if it were handled by thee, 
It would bloom with a livelier air, 

And would surely be sweeter to me ! 

Then take it, and let it entwine 
Thy tresses, so flowing" and bright ; 

And each little flowret will shine 
More rich than a gem to my sight. 



* This ballad was probably suggested by the following 
Epigram in Martial : 

Intactas quare mittis mihi, Polla, coronas, 
A te vexatas malo tenere rosas. Epig. xc. lib. 11.— E, 



62 POEMS. 

Let the odorous gale of thy breath 
Embalm it with many a sigh : 

Nay, let it be wither' d to death 

Beneath the warm noon of thine eye. 

And, instead of the dew that it bears, 
The dew dropping fresh from the tree ; 

On its leaves let me number the tears 
That Affection has stolen from thee ! 



POEMS. 63 



TO MRS. 



ON HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSLATION OF 



VOITURE'S KISS. 



Mon ime sur mon levre etoit lors toute entiere, 
Pour savourer le mielqui sur la votre etoit; 

Mais en me retirant, elle resta derriere, 
Tant de ce doux plaisir l'amorce l'arrestoit. Voit. 



How heavenly was the poet's doom, 
To breathe his spirit through a kiss ; 

And lose within so sweet a tomb 
The trembling messenger of bliss ! 

And, ah ! his soul returned to feel 
That it again could ravishM be ; 

For in the kiss that thou didst steal, 
His life and soul have fled to thee ! 



64 POEMS. 

TO A LADY, 

ON HER SINGING. 



Thy song has taught my heart to feel 
Those soothing thoughts of heavenly love 

Which o'er the sainted spirits steal 
When list'ning to the spheres above ! 

When, tir'd of life and misery, 
I wish to sigh my latest breath, 

Oh, Emma ! I will fly to thee, 

And thou shalt sing me into death ! 

And if along thy lip and cheek 

That smile of heav'nly softness play, 

Which,— ah ! forgive a mind that's weak, — 
So oft has stoPn my mind away ; 

Thou'lt seem an angel of the sky, 
That comes to charm me into bliss: 

Pll gaze and die — Who would not die, 
If death were half so sweet as this ? 



POEMS. 65 



A DREAM. 



I thought this heart consuming lay 
On Cupid's burning shrine : 

I thought he stole thy heart away. 
And plac'd it near to mine. 

I saw thy heart hegin to melt, 

Like ice before the sun ; 
Till both a glow congenial felt, 

And mingled into one ! 



66 POEMS. 



WRITTEN IN A COMMONPLACE BOOK, 

CALLED 

"THE BOOK OF FOLLIES;" 

In which every one that opened it should contribute something, 



TO THE BOOK OF FOLLIES. 

This tribute's from a wretched elf, 
Who hails thee, emblem of himself ! 
The book of life, which I have trac'd, 
Has been, like thee, a motley waste 
Of follies scribbled o'er and o'er, 
One folly bringing hundreds more. 
Some have indeed been writ so neat, 
In characters so fair, so sweet, 
That those who judge not too severely, 
Have said they lov'd such follies dearly ! 



POEMS. 67 

Yet still, O book ! the allusion stands ; 
For these were penn'd by female hands : 
The rest, — alas ! I own the truth, — 
Have all been scribbled so uncouth 
That Prudence, with a withering look, 
Disdainful flings away the book. 
Like thine, its pages here and there 
Have oft been stain' d with blots of care ; 
And sometimes hours of peace, I own, 
Upon some fairer leaves have shown, 
White as the snowings of that heaven 
By which those hours of peace were given. 
But now no longer — such, oh ! such 
The blast of Disappointment's touch I — 
No longer now those hours appear ; 
Each leaf is sullied by a tear : 
Blank, blank is ev'ry page with care, 
Not e'en a folly brightens there. 
Will they yet brighten ? — never, never ! 
Then shut the book, O God ! for ever ! 



POEMS. 



WRITTEN IN THE SAME. 



PRETTY LITTLE MRS. 

IMPROMPTU. 



rlagis venustatem an brevitatem mireris incertum est. 

Macrob. Sat. Lib. ii. cap. 2. 



This journal of folly's an emblem of me; 
But what book shall we find emblematic of thee ? 
Oh ! shall we not say thou art Love's duodecimo P 
None can be prettier ; few can be less, you know. 
Such a volume in sheets were a volume of charms ; 
Or if bound, it should only be bound in our arms ! 



POEMS. 69 



SONG. 



Dear ! in pity do not speak ; 

In your eyes I read it all, 
In the flushing of your cheek, 

In those tears that fall. 
Yes, yes, my soul ! I see 
You love, you live for only me ! 

Beam, yet beam that killing eye, 
Bid me expire in luscious pain ; 

But kiss me, kiss me while I die, 
And, oh ! I live again ! 

Still, my love, with looking kill, 

And, oh ! revive with kisses still !. 



70 POEMS. 



THE TEAR. 



Ojs beds of snow the moonbeam slept, 
And chilly was the midnight gloom, 

When by the damp grave Ellen wept — 
Sweet maid ! it was her Lindor's tomb : 

A warm tear gushM, the wintry air 
Congeal' d it as it flow'd away : 

All night it lay an ice-drop there, 
At morn it glitter' d in the ray ! 

An angel, wand' ring from her sphere, 
Who saw this bright, this frozen gem, 

To dew-ey'd Pity brought the tear, 
And hung it on her diadem ! 



POEMS. "1 



TO 



In bona cur qoisquam tertius ista venit 1 Ovid. 



So ! Rosa turns her back on me, 
Thou walking monument ! for thee ; 
Whose visage, like a grave-stone scribbled, 
With vanity bedaub' d, befribbled, 
Tells only to the reading eye, 
That underneath corrupting lie, 
Within thy heart's contagious tomb 
(As in a cemetery's gloom), 
Suspicion, rankling to infection, 
And all the worms of black reflection ! 

And thou art Rosa's dear elect, 

And thou hast won the lovely trifle ; 

And I must bear repulse, neglect, 
And I must all my anguish stifle : 



72 POEMS. 

While thou for ever lingei^st nigh, 

Scowling, muttering, gloating, mumming, 

Like some sharp, busy, fretful fly, 
About a twinkling taper humming. 



POEMS. 73 



TO JULIA, 

WEEPING. 



Oh ! if your tears are giv'n to care> 
If real woe disturbs your peace, 

Come to my bosom, weeping fair ! 
And I will bid your weeping cease. 

But if with Fancy's vision' d fears, 

With dreams of woe your bosom thrill ; 

You look so lovely in your tears, 
That I must bid you drop them still ! 



74 



POEMS. 



SONG. 



Have you not seen the timid tear 

Steal trembling from mine eye? 
Have you not mark'd the flush of fear, 

Or caught the murmured sigh ? 
And can you think my love is chill, 

Nor fix'd on you alone ? 
And can you rend, by doubting still, 

A heart so much your own ? 



To you my soul's affections move 

Devoutly, warmly true ; 
My life has been a task of love, 

One long, long thought of you. 
If all your tender faith be o'er, 

If still my truth you'll try ; 
Alas ! I know but one proof more, — 

Pll bless your name, and die ! 



POEMS. 



THE SHIELD*. 



Oh ! did you not hear a voice of death ! 

And did you not mark the paly form 
Which rode on the silvery mist of the heath, 

And sung a ghostly dirge in the storm ? 

Was it a wailing bird of the gloom, 

Which shrieks on the house of woe all night ? 
Or a shivering fiend that flew to a tomb, 

To howl and to feed till the glance of light ? 

'Twas not the death-bird's cry from the wood, 
Nor shivering fiend that hung on the blast ; 

'Twas the shade of Helderic — man of blood — 
It screams for the guilt of days that are past ! 



* This poem is perfectly in the taste of the present day 
— " his nam plebecula gaudet." E. 



76 POEMS. 



See ! how the red, red lightning strays, 
And scares the gliding ghosts of the heath ! 

Now on the leafless yew it plays, 

Where hangs the shield of this son of death ! 



That shield is blushing with murderous stains ; 

Long has it hung from the cold yew's spray ; 
It is blown by storms and washM by rains> 

But neither can take the blood away ! 

Oft by that yew, on the blasted field, 
Demons dance to the red moon's light ; 

While the damp boughs creak, and the swinging 
shield 
Sings to the raving spirit of night ! 






POEMS. 



TO MRS. 



Yes, Heaven can witness how I strove 
To love thee with a spirit's love ; 
To make the purer wish my own, 
And mingle with thy mind alone. 
Oh ! I appeal to those pure dreams 
In which my soul has hung on thee, 
And Pve forgot thy witching form, 
And Pve forgot the liquid beams 
That eye effuses, thrilling warm — 
Yes, yes, forgot each sensual charm, 
Each mad'ning spell of luxury 
That could seduce my souPs desires, 
And bid it throb with guiltier fires. — 
Such was my love, and many a time, 
When sleep has giv'n thee to my breast, 



78 POEMS. 

And thou hast seem'd to share the crime 
Which made thy lover wildly blest; 
E'en then, in all that rich delusion, 
When, by voluptuous visions fiYd, 
My soul, in rapture's wann confusion, 
Has on a phantom's lip expirM ! 
E'en then some purer thoughts would steal 
Amid my senses' warm excess ; 
And at the moment — oh ! e'en then 
I've started from thy melting press, 
And blush'd for all I've dar'd to feel, 
Yet sigh'd to feel it all again ! — 
Such was my love, and still, O, still 
I might have calm'd the unholy thrill : 
My heart might be a taintless shrine, 
And thou its votive saint should be ; 
There, there I'd make thee all divine, 
Myself divine in honouring thee. 
But, oh ! that night ! that fatal night ! 
When, both bewilder'd, both betray'd, 
We sunk beneath the flow of soul, 
Which for a moment mock'd control ; 
And on the dang'rous kiss delay'd, 
And almost yielded to delight ! 



POEMS. 79 

God ! how I wishM, in that wild hour, 

That lips alone, thus stamped with heat, 

Had for a moment all the pow'r 

To make our souls effusing meet ! 

That we might mingle by the breath 

In all of love's delicious death ; 

And in a kiss at once be blest, 

As, oh ! we trembled at the rest ! — 

Pity me, love ! Pll pity thee, 

If thou indeed hast felt like me. 

All, all my bosom's peace is o'er ! 

At night, which was my hour of calm, 

When from the page of classic lore, 

From the pure fount of ancient lay 

My soul has drawn the placid balm, 

Which charm'd its little griefs away ; 

Ah ! there I find that balm no more. 

Those spells, which make us oft forget 

The fleeting troubles of the day, 

In deeper sorrows only whet 

The stings they cannot tear away. 

When to my pillow racked I fly, 

With wearied sense and wakeful eye, 

While my brain maddens, where, O, where 

Is that serene consoling pray'r, 



80 POEMS. 

Which once has harbingerM my rest, 
When the still soothing voice of Heaven 
Has seem'd to whisper in my breast, 
"Sleep on, thy errors are forgiven I" 
No, though I still in semblance pray, 
My thoughts are wandering far away ; 
And e'en the name of Deity 
Is murmurM out in sighs for thee * ! 

* This irregular occurrence of the rhymes is adopted from 
the light poetry of the French, and is, I think particularly 
suited to express the varieties of feeling. In gentler emotions, 
the verse may flow periodic and regular ; and, in the transition 
to violent passion, can assume all the animated abruptness 
of blank verse. Besides, by dispensing with the limits of 
distich and stanza, it allows an interesting suspension of the 
sentiment. E. 



POEMS. 81 



ELEGIAC STANZAS, 

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY JULIA* 

ON THE DEATH OF HER BROTHER. 



Though sorrow long has worn my heart ; 

Though every day I've counted o'er 
Has brought a new and quickening smart 

To wounds that rankled fresh before ; 

Though in my earliest life bereft 
Of many a link by nature tied ; 

Though hope deceived, and pleasure left; 
Though friends betray y d and foes belied ; 

I still had hopes — for hope will stay 

After the sunset of delight ; 
So like the star which ushers day, 

We scarce can think it heralds night I 

G 



82 POEMS. 

I hop'd that, after all its strife, 

My weary heart at length should rest, 

And, fainting from the waves of life, 
Find harbour in a brother's breast. 

That brother's breast was warm with truth. 
Was bright with honour's purest ray ; 

He was the dearest, gentlest youth — 
Oh ! why then was he torn away ? 

He should have stay'd, have lingered here 
To calm his Julia's every woe ; 

He should have chas'd each bitter tear, 
And not have caus'd those tears to flow. 

We saw his youthful soul expand 
In blooms of genius, nurs'd by taste ; 

While Science, with a fostering hand, 
Upon his brow her chaplet plac'd. 

We saw his gradual op'ning mind 
Enrich' d by all the graces dear ; 

Enlighten'd, social, and refln'd, 
In friendship firm, in love sincere. 



POEMS. 83 

Such was the youth we lov'd so well ; 

Such were the hopes that fate denied — 
We lov'd, but ah ! we could not tell 

How deep, how dearly, till he died ! 

Close as the fondest links could strain, 
Twined with my very heart he grew ; 

And by that fate which breaks the chain. 
The heart is almost broken too ! 



84 POEMS. 



FANNY OP TIMMOL. 



A MAIL-COACH ADVENTURE. 



Quadrigis petinius bene vivere. Horace. 



Sweet Fanny of Timmol ! when first you came in 
To the close little carriage in whichlwashurPd, 

I thought to myself, if it were not a sin, 

I could teach you the prettiesttricks in the world. 



For your dear little lips, to their destiny true, 
Seem'd to know they were born for the use of 
another ; 

And, to put me in mind of what I ought to do, 
Were eternally biting and kissing each other. 



And then you were darting from eyelids so sly, — 
Half open, half shutting,— such tremulous light : 

Let them say what they will, I could read in your 
eye 
More comical things than I ever shall write. 









POEMS. 85 

And oft as we mingled our legs and our feet, 
I felt a pulsation, and cannot tell whether 

In yours or in mine — but I know it was sweet, 
And I think we both felt it and trembled together. 

At length when arriv'd, at our supper we sat, 
I heard with a sigh, which had something of pain, 

That perhaps our last moment of meeting was that, 
And Fanny should go back to Timmol again. 

Yet I swore not that I was in love with you, 
Fanny, — 

Oh, no ! for I felt it could never be true ; 
I but said what Pve said very often to many — 

There's few I would rather be kissing than you ! 

Then first did I learn that you once had believ'd 
Some lover, the dearest and falsest of men ; 

And so gently you spoke of the youth who deceived 
That I thought you perhaps might be tempted 
again. 

But you told me that passion a moment amus'd 
Was follow' d too oft by an age of repenting ; 

And check' d me, so softly, that while you refus'd, 
Forgive me, dear girl, if I thought 'twas con- 
senting ! 



86 POEMS. 

And still I entreated, and still you denied, 

Till I almost was made to believe you sincere: 
Though I found that, in bidding me leave you, 
you sigh'd, 
And when you repulsM me, 'twas done with 
a tear. 

In vain did I whisper, " There's nobody nigh ;" 
In vain with the tremors of passion implore : 

Your excuse was a kiss, and a tear your reply — 
I acknowledged them both, and I ask'd for no 
more. 

Was I right? — oh! I cannot believe I was wrong. 

Poor Fanny is gone back to Timmol again ; 
And may Providence guide her uninjured along, 

Nor scatter her path with repentance and pain ! 

By Heav'n ! I would rather for ever forswear 
The elysium that dwells on a beautiful breast, 

Than alarm for a moment the peace that is there, 
Or banish the dove from so hallow'd a nest ! 



POEMS. 



A NIGHT THOUGHT. 



How oft a cloud, with envious veil, 
Obscures yon bashful light, 

Which seems so modestly to steal 
Along the waste of night ! 

'Tis thus the world's obtrusive wrongs 

Obscure with malice keen 
Some timid heart, which only longs 

To live and die unseen ! 



88 POEMS. 



ELEGIAC STANZAS. 



Sic juvat perire. 



When wearied wretches sink to sleep, 
How heavenly soft their slumbers lie I 

How sweet is death to those who weep, 
To those who weep and long to die ! 

Saw you the soft and grassy bed, 

Where flowrets deck the green earth's breast P 
'Tis there I wish to lay my head, 

'Tis there I wish to sleep at rest I 

Oh ! let not tears embalm my tomb, 
None but the dews by twilight given ! 

Oh ! let not sighs disturb the gloom, 

None but the whispering winds of heaven [ 



POEMS. 89 



THE KISS. 



Grow to my lip, thou sacred kiss, 
On which my soul's beloved swore 
That there should come a time of bliss, 
When she would mock my hopes no more ; 
And fancy shall thy glow renew, 
In sighs at morn, and dreams at night, 
And none shall steal thy holy dew 
Till thou'rt absolvM by rapture's rite. 
Sweet hours that are to make me blest, 
Oh ! fly, like breezes, to the goal, 
And let my love, my more than soul 
Come panting to this fever'd breast ; 
And while in every glance I drink 
The rich overflowings of her mind, 
Oh ! let her all impassion' d sink 
In sweet abandonment resigned, 
Blushing for all our struggles past, 
And murmuring, " I am thine at last f* 



90 POEMS. 



TO 



With all my soul, then, let us part, 
Since both are anxious to be free ; 

And I will send you home your heart, 
If you will send back mine to me. 

We've had some happy hours together, 
But joy must often change its wing ; 

And spring would be but gloomy weather, 
If we had nothing else but spring. 

'Tis not that I expect to find 

A more devoted, fond, and true one, 

With rosier cheek or sweeter mind — 
Enough for me that she's a new one. 



POEMS. 91 

Thus let us leave the bower of love, 
Where we have loiter' d long in bliss ; 

And you may down that pathway rove, 
While I shall take my way through this. 

Our hearts have suffer* d little harm 

In this short fever of desire ; 
You have not lost a single charm, 

Nor I one spark of feeling fire. 

My kisses have not stain' d the rose 
Which Nature hung upon your lip ; 

And still your sigh with nectar flows 
For many a raptur'd soul to sip. 

Farewell ! and when some other fair 
Shall call your wanderer to her arms, 

'Twill be my lux'ry to compare 

Her spells with your remember* cl charms. 

" This cheek/* I'll say, " is not so bright 
As one that us'd to meet my kiss ; 

This eye has not such liquid light 
As one that us'd to talk of bliss !" 



92 



POEMS. 



Farewell ! and when some future lover 
Shall claim the heart w T hich I resign, 

And in exulting joys discover 
All the charms that once were mine ; 



I think I should be sweetly blest, 
If, in a soft imperfect sigh, 

You'd say, while to his bosom prest, 
He loves not half so w T ell as I ! 



POEMS. 93 



A REFLECTION AT SEA. 



See how, beneath the moonbeam's smile. 

Yon little billow heaves its breast, 
And foams and sparkles for awhile, 

And murmuring then subsides to rest. 

Thus man, the sport of bliss and care, 
Rises on time's eventful sea ; 

And, having swell' d a moment there, 
Thus melts into eternity ! 



94 POEMS. 



AN INVITATION TO SUPPER. 



TO MRS. 



Myself, dear Julia ! and the Sun 
Have now two years of rambling- run \ 
And he before his wheels has driven 
The grand menagerie of Heaven : 
While I have met on earth, I swear, 
As many brutes as he has there. 
The only difference, I can see, 
Betwixt the flaming god and me, 
Is, that his ways are periodic, 
And mine, I fear, are simply oddic. 
But, dearest girl ! 'tis now a lapse 
Of two short years, or less perhaps, 
Since you to me, and I to you, 
Vow'd to be ever fondly true ! — 



POEMS. 95 

Ah Julia ! those were pleasant times ! 
You lov'd me for my amorous rhymes ; 
And I lov'd you, because I thought 
'Twas so delicious to be taught 
By such a charming guide as you, 
With eyes of fire and lips of dew, 
All I had often fancied o'er, 
But never, never felt before : 
The day flew by, and night was short 
For half our blisses, half our sport ! 

I know not how we changed, or why, 
Or if the first was you or I : 
Yet so 'tis now, we meet each other, 
And Pm no more than Julia's brother ; 
While she's so like my prudent sister, 
There's few would think how close Pve kist her. 

But, Julia, let those matters pass ! 
If you will brim a sparkling glass 
To vanish'd hours of true delight, 
Come to me after dusk to-night. 
Pll have no other guest to meet you, 
But here alone I'll tete-a-tete you. 



96 POEMS. 

Over a little attic feast, 

As full of cordial soul at least, 

As those where Delia met Tibullus, 

Or Lesbia wanton'd with Catullus*. 

Pll sing you many a roguish sonnet 
About it, at it, and upon it: 
And songs addressed, as if I lov'd, 
To all the girls with whom I've rov'd. 
Come, pr'ythee, come, you'll find me here, 
Like Horace, waiting for his deart. 
There shall not be to-night, on earth, 
Two souls more elegant in mirth : 
And though our hey-day passion's fled, 
The spirit of the love that's dead 
Shall hover wanton o'er our head ; 
Like souls that round the grave will fly, 
In which their late possessors lie : 



* Coenam, non sine Candida puella. Cat. Carin. xiii. 



puellam 



Ad mediam noctem expecto. Hor. Lib. i. sat. 5. 



POEMS. 97 

And who, my pretty Julia, knows, 
But when our warm remembrance glows, 
The ghost of Love may act anew, 
What Love when living us'd to do ! 



98 POEMS. 



ODE UPON MORNING. 



Turn to me, love ! the morning rays 
Are glowing o'er thy languid charms ; 

Take one luxurious parting gaze, 
While yet I linger in thine arms. 

*Twas long before the noon of night 
I stole into thy bosom, dear ! 

And now the glance of dawning light 
Has found me still in dalliance here. 

Turn to me, love ! the trembling gleams 
Of morn along thy white neck stray ; 

Away, away, you envious beams, 
I'll chase you with my lips away ! 



POEMS. 99 

Oh ! is it not divine to think, — 

While all around were lulPd in night, 

While e'en the planets seem'd to wink, — 
We kept our vigils of delight ! 

The heart, that little world of ours, 
Unlike the drowsy world of care, 

Then, then awak'd its sweetest pow'rs,. 
And all was animation there ! 

Kiss me once more, and then I fly, 
Our parting, would to noonday last ; 

There, close that languid trembling eye, 
And sweetly dream of all the past! 

As soon as Night shall fix her seal 
Upon the eyes and lips of men,. 

Oh, dearest ! I will panting steal 
To nestle in thine arms again! 

Our joys shall take their stolen flight,. 
• Secret as those celestial spheres 
Which make sweet music all the night, 
Unheard by drowsy mortal ears L 



100 POEMS. 



SONG *. 



Oh ! nothing in life can sadden us, 

While we have wine and good humour in store ; 
With this, and a little of love to madden us, 

Show me the fool that can labour for more ! 
Come, then, bid Ganymede fill ev'ry bowl for you, 

Fill them up brimmers, and drink as I call : 
I'm going to toast ev'ry nymph of my soul for you, 

Ay, on my soul, Pm in love with them all ! 

Dear creatures ! we can't live without them, 
They're all that is sweet and seducing to man ; 

Looking, sighing about and about them, 

W r e dote on them, die for them, all that we can. 



* There are many spurious copies of this song in circu. 
lation ; and it is universally attributed to a gentleman who 
has no more right than the Editor of these Poems to any 
share whatever in the composition. E. 



POEMS. 101 

Here's Phillis ! — whose innocent bosom 

Is always agog for some novel desires ; 
To-day to get lovers, to-morrow to lose 'em, 
Is all that the innocent Phillis requires. — 
Here's to the gay little Jessy ! — who simpers 

So vastly good humour'd, whatever is done ; 
She'll kiss you, and that without whining or 
whimpers, 
And do what you please with you — all out of 
fun! 

Dear creatures, &e. 

A bumper to Fanny ! — I know you will scorn her, 

Because she's a prude, and her nose is so curPd ; 
But if ever you chatter with Fan in a corner, 

You'd say she's the best little girl in the 
world ! — 
Another to Lyddy ! — still struggling with duty, 

And asking her conscience still, "whether she 
should ;" 
While her eyes, in the silent confession of beauty, 

Say " Only for something I certainly would !" 

Dear creatures, &c. 



102 POEMS. 

Fill for Chloe ! — bewitchingly simple, 

Who angles the heart with out knowing- her lure ; 
Still wounding around with a blush or a dimple. 

Nor seeming to feel that she also could cure ! — 
Here's pious Susan ! — the saint, who alone, sir, 

Could ever have made me religious outright : 
For had I such a dear little saint of my own, sir, 

I'd pray on my knees to her half the long night ! 

Dear creatures, &c. 



POEMS. 103 



Come, tell me where the maid is found, 
Whose heart can love without deceit, 

And I will range the world around, 
To sigh one moment at her feet. 

Oh ! tell me where's her sainted home, 
What air receives her blessed sigh, 

A pilgrimage of years Pll roam 
To catch one sparkle of her eye ! 

And if her cheek be rosy bright, 
While truth within her bosom lies, 

I'll gaze upon her morn and night, 

Till my heart leave me through my eyes ! 

Show me on earth a thing so rare, 

I'll own all miracles are true ; 
To make one maid sincere and fair, 

Oh ! 'tis the utmost Heav'n can do! 



104 POEMS. 



SONG*. 



Sweetest love ! PJ1 not forget thee; 

Time shall only teach my heart, 
Fonder, warmer to regret thee, 

Lovely, gentle as thou art ! — 
Farewell, Bessy ! 

Yet, oh ! yet again we'll meet, love. 
And repose our hearts at last : 

Oh ! sure 'twill then be sweet, love, 
Calm to think on sorrows past. — 
Farewell, Bessy ! 



* All these songs were adapted to airs which Mr. Little 
composed, and sometimes sang, for his friends : this may 
account for the peculiarity of metre observable in many of 
them. E. 



POEMS. 105 

Yes, my girl, the distant blessing 
Mayn't be always sought in vain ; 

And the moment of possesing — 
WilPt not, love, repay our pain ? — 
Farewell, Bessy ! 

Still I feel my heart is breaking, 
When I think I stray from thee, 

Round the world that quiet seeking, 
Which I fear is not for me ! — 
Farewell, Bessy ! 

Calm to peace thy lover's bosom — 

Can it, dearest ! must it be? 
Thou within an hour shalt lose him, 

He for ever loses thee ! 
Farewell, Bessy ! 



106 POEMS. 



SONG. 



If I swear by that eye, you'll allow 

Its look is so shifting and new, 
That the oath I might take on it now 

The very next glance would undo ! 

Those babies that nestle so sly 
Such different arrows have got, 

That an oath, on the glance of an eye 
Such as yours, may be off in a shot ! 

Should I swear by the dew on your lip, 
Though each moment the treasure renews, 

If my constancy wishes to trip, 

I must kiss off the oath when I choose ! 



POEMS. 107 

Or a sigh may disperse from that flow'r 
The dew and the oath that are there ! 

And Pd make a new vow ev'ry hour, 
To lose them so sweetly in air ! 

But clear up that heaven of your brow, 
Nor fancy my faith is a feather ; 

On my heart I will pledge you my vow, 
And they both must be broken together ! 



108 POEMS. 



JULIA'S KISS. 



When infant Bliss in roses slept, 
Cupid upon his slumber crept ; 
And while a balmy sigh he stole, 
Exhaling from the infant's soul, 
He smiling said, " With this, with this 
Pll scent my Julia's burning kiss !" 

Nay, more ; he stole to Venus' bed, 
Ere yet the sanguine flush had fled, 
Which Love's divinest, dearest flame 
Had kindled through her panting frame. 
Her soul still dwelt on memory's themes, 
Still floated in voluptuous dreams ; 
And every joy she felt before 
In slumber now was acting o'er. 
From her ripe lips, which seem'd to thrill 
As in the war of kisses still, 



POEMS. 109 

And amorous to each other clung, 
He stole the dew that trembling hung, 
And smiling said, u With this, with this 
Pll bathe my Julia's burning kiss \" 



110 POEMS. 



TO 



Remember him thou leav'st behind, 
Whose heart is warmly bound to thee, 

Close as the tend'rest links can bind 
A heart as warm as heart can be. 

Oh ! I had long in freedom rov'd, 

Though many seemM my soul to share ; 

'Twas passion when I thought I lov'd, 
'Twas fancy when I thought them fair. 

E'en she, my muse's early theme, 
BeguiPd me only while she warned ; 

'Twas young Desire that fed the dream, 
And reason broke what passion form'd. 



POEMS. Ill 

But thou — ah ! better had it been 

If I had still in freedom rov'd, 
If I had ne'er thy beauties seen. 

For then I never should have lov'd ! 

Then all the pain which lovers feel 
Had never to my heart been known ; 

But, ah ! the joys which lovers steal, 
Should they have ever been my own P 

Oh ! trust me, when I swear thee this, 
Dearest! the pain of loving thee, 

The very pain is sweeter bliss 
Than passion's wildest ecstasy ! 

That little cage I would not part, 
In which my soul is prison'd no\v > 

For the most light and winged heart 
That wantons on the passing vow. 

Still, my belov'd ! still keep in mind> 

However far remov'd from me, 
That there is one thou leav'st behind, 

Whose heart respires for only thee ! 



112 POEMS. 

And though ungenial ties have bound 
Thy fate unto another's care ; 

That arm, which clasps thy bosom round, 
Cannot confine the heart that's there. 

No, no ! that heart is only mine 

By ties all other ties above, 
For I have wed it at a shrine 

Where we have had no priest but Love ! 



POEMS. 113 



SONG. 



Fly from the world, O Bessy ! to me, 

Thou'lt never find any sincerer ; 
Til give up the world, O Bessy ! for thee, 

I can never meet any that's dearer ! 
Then tell me no more, with a tear and a sigh, 

That our loves will be censur'd by many ; 
All, all have their follies, and who will deny 

That ours is the sweetest of any ? 

When your lip has met mine, in abandonment 
sweet, 

Have we felt as if virtue forbid it ? — 
Have we felt as if Heaven denied them to meet ?— 

No, rather 'twas Heaven that did it ! 
So innocent, love, is the pleasure we sip, 

So little of guilt is there in it, 
That I wish all my errors were lodged on your lip, 

And Pd kiss them away in a minute ! 

i 



114 POEMS. 

Then come to your lover, oh ! fly to his shed, 

From a world which I know thou despisest; 
And slumber will hover as light on our bed 

As e'er on the couch of the wisest ! 
And when on our pillow the tempest is driven, 

And thou, pretty innocent, fearest, 
Pll tell thee, it is not the chiding of Heaven, 

'Tis only our lullaby, dearest ! 

And, oh ! when we lie on our deathbed, my love, 

Looking back on the scene of our errors, 
A sigh from my Bessy shall plead then above, 

And Death be disarmed of his terrors ! 
And each to the other embracing will say, 

" Farewell ! let us hope we're forgiven l" 
Thy last fading glance w r ill illumine the way, 

And a kiss be our passport to Heaven ! 



POEMS. 115 



SONG. 



Think on that look of humid ray, 

Which for a moment mix'd with mine, 

And for that moment seemM to say, 
" I dare not, or I would be thine 1" 

Think, think on ev'ry smile and glance, 
On all thou hast to charm and move ; 

And then forgive my bosom's trance, 
And tell me, 'tis not sin to love ! 

Oh ! not to love thee were the sin ; 

For sure, if Heaven's decrees be done, 
Thou, thou art destin'd still to win, 

As I was destined to be won ! 



116 POEMS. 



SONG. 



A captive thus to thee, my girl, 
How sweetly shall I pass my age, 

Contented, like the playful squirrel, 
To wanton up and down my cage. 

When death shall envy joy like this, 
And come to shade our sunny weather, 

Be our last sigh the sigh of bliss, 
And both our souls exhalM together ! 



POEMS. 117 



THE CATALOGUE. 



" Come, tell me," says Rosa, as kissing and kist, 

One day she reclin'd on my breast ; 
" Come, tell me the number, repeat me the list 

Of the nymphs you have lov'd and carest." — 
Oh Rosa ! 'twas only my fancy that rov'd, 

My heart at the moment was free ; 
But Pll tell thee, my girl, how many Pve lovM, 

And the number shall finish with thee ! 

My tutor was Kitty ; in infancy wild 

She taught me the way to be blest ; 
She taught me to love her, I lovM like a child, 

But Kitty could fancy the rest. 
This lesson of dear and enrapturing lore 

I have never forgot, I allow : 
I have had it by rote very often before, 

But never by heart until now ! 



118 POEMS. 

Pretty Martha was next, and my soul was all flame, 

But my head was so full of romance 
That I fancied her into some chivalry dame, 

And I was her knight of the lance ! 
But Martha was not of this fanciful school, 

And she laugh' d at her poor little knight ; 
While I thought her a goddess, she thought me a 
fool, 

And I'll swear she was most in the right. 

My soul was now calm, till, by Cloris's looks, 

Again I was tempted to rove ; 
But Cloris, I found, w^as so learned in books 

That she gave me more logic than love ! 
So I left this young Sappho, and hasten' d to fly 

To those sweeter logicians in bliss, 
Who argue the point with a soul-telling eye, 

And convince us at once with a kiss ! 

Oh ! Susan was then all the world unto me, 

But Susan was piously given ; 
And the w r orst of it was, we could never agree 

On the road that was shortest to Heaven ! 



POEMS. 119 

" Oh, Susan!" Pve said, in the moments of mirth, 
" What's devotion to thee or to me ? 

I devoutly believe there's a heaven on earth, 
And believe that that heaven's in thee !" 



120 POEMS. 

A FRAGMENT. 

TO . 



'Tis night, the spectred hour is nigh ! 

Pensive I hear the moaning blast, 

Passing, with sad sepulchral sigh, 

My lyre that hangs neglected by, 

And seems to mourn for pleasures past! 

That lyre was once attun'd for thee 

To many a lay of fond delight, 

When all thy days were giv'n to me, 

And mine was every blissful night. 

How oft Pve languished by thy side, 

And while my heart's luxuriant tide 

Ran in wild riot through my veins, 

Pve wak'd such sweetly madd'ning strains 

As if by inspiration's fire 

My soul was blended with my lyre ! 

Oh ! while in every fainting note 

We heard the soul of passion float; 



POEMS. 121 

While, in thy blue dissolving glance, 
I've raptur'd read thy bosom's trance, 
I've sung and trembled, kiss'd and sung ; 
Till, as we mingle breath with breath, 
Thy burning kisses parch my tongue, 
My hands drop listless on the lyre, 
And, murmuring like a swan in death, 
Upon thy bosom I expire ! 
Yes, I indeed remember well 
Those hours of pleasure past and o'er ; 
Why have I liv'd their sweets to tell? 
To tell, but never feel them more ! 
I should have died, have sweetly died, 
In one of those impassion' d dreams, 
When languid, silent on thy breast, 
Drinking thine eyes' delicious beams, 
My soul has flutter'd from its nest, 
And on thy lip just parting sigh'd ! 
Oh ! dying thus a death of love, 
To heav'n how dearly should I go ! 
He well might hope for joys above 
Who had be^un them here below ! 



1*22 POEMS. 



SONG. 



Where is the nymph, whose azure eye 
Can shine through rapture's tear ? 

The sun has sunk, the moon is high, 
And yet she comes not here ! 

Was that her footstep on the hill— 
Her voice upon the gale ? — 

No, 'twas the wind, and all is still, 
Oh maid of Marlivale ! 

Come to me, love, I've wander'd far, 
'Tis past the promis'd hour ! 

Come to me, love, the twilight star 
Shall guide thee to my bow'r. 



POEMS. 123 



SONG. 



When Time, who steals our years away, 
Shall steal our pleasures too, 

The mem'ry of the past will stay, 
And half our joys renew. 

Then, Chloe, when thy beauty's flow'r 

Shall feel the wintry air, 
Remembrance will recall the hour 

When thou alone wert fair ! 

Then talk no more of future gloom ; 

Our joys shall always last ; 
For hope shall brighten days to come, 

And mem'ry gild the past ! 

Come, Chloe, fill the genial bowl, 

I drink to Love and thee : 
Thou never canst decay in soul, 

Thou'lt still be young for me. 



124 POEMS. 

And as thy lips the tear-drop chase, 
Which on my cheek they find, 

So hope shall steal away the trace 
Which sorrow leaves behind ! 

Then fill the bowl — away with gloom ! 

Our joys shall always last; 
For hope shall brighten days to come, 

And memory gild the past ! 

But mark, at thought of future years 

When love shall lose its soul, 
My Chloe drops her timid tears, 

They mingle with my bowl ! 

How like this bowl of wine, my fair, 

Our loving life shall fleet ; 
Though tears may sometimes mingle there, 

The draught will still be sweet ! 

Then fill the bowl ! — away with gloom ! 

Our joys shall always last ; 
For hope will brighten days to come, 

And memory gild the past ! 



POEMS. 125 

THE SHRINE. 
TO 



My fates had destinM me to rove 
A long, long pilgrimage of love ; 
And many an altar on my way 
Has lur'd my pious steps to stay; 
For, if the saint was young and fair, 
I tum'd and sung my vespers there. 
This, from a youthful pilgrim's fire, 
Is what your pretty saints require : 
To pass, nor tell a single bead, 
With them would be profane indeed! 
But, trust me, all this young devotion 
Was but to keep my zeal in motion ; 
And, ev'ry humbler altar past, 
I now have reach'd the shrine at last ! 



126 POEMS. 



REUBEN AND ROSE. 

A TALE OF ROMANCE. 



The darkness which hung upon Willumberg's 

walls 

Has long been remember'd with awe and 

dismay ! 

For years not a sunbeam had playM in its halls, 

And it seem'd as shut out from the regions of day . 

Though the valleys were brightened by many a 
beam, 
Yet none could the woods of the castle illume ; 
And the lightning, which flashed on the neigh- 
bouring stream, 
Flew back, as if fearing to enter the gloom ! 

Ci Oh ! when shall this horrible darkness disperse !" 
Said Willumberg's lord to the seer of the 
cave ; — 
xc It can never dispel," said the wizard of verse, 
<c Till the bright star of chivalry's sunk in the 
wave !"" 






POEMS. 127 

And who was the bright star of chivalry then ? 

Who could be but Reuben, the flow'r of the age ? 
For Reuben was first in the combat of men, 

Though Youth had scarce written his name 
on her page. 

For Willumberg's daughter his bosom had beat, 

For Rose, who was bright as the spirit of dawn, 

When with wand dropping diamonds, and silvery 

feet, 

It walks o'er the flowers of the mountain and 

lawn ! 

Must Rose, then, from Reuben so fatally sever ? 

Sad, sad were the words of the man in the cave, 
That darkness should cover the castle for ever, 

Or Reuben be sunk in the merciless wave ! 

She flew to the wizard — " And tell me, oh, tell ! 
Shall my Reuben no more be restored to my 



eyes 



P» 



Yes, yes, — when a spirit shall toll the great bell 
Of the mouldering abbey, your Reuben shall 
rise 1" 



128 POEMS. 

Twice, thrice he repeated "Your Reuben shall 

rise I" 

And Rose felt a moment's release from her pain ; 

She wip'd, while she listened, the tears from her 

eyes, 

And she hop'd she might yet see her hero again ! 

Her hero could smile at the terrors of death, 
When he felt that he died for the sire of his 
Rose; 
To the Oder he flew, and there, plunging beneath, 
In the lapse of the billows soon found his 
repose. — 

How strangely the order of destiny falls ! — 
Not long in the waters the warrior lay, 

When a sunbeam was seen to glance over the 
walls, 
And the castle of Willumberg bask'd in the ray ! 

All, all but the soul of the maid was in light, 
There sorrow and terror lay gloomy and blank : 

Two days did she wander, and all the long night, 
In quest of her love, on the wide river's bank. 



POEMS. 129 

Oft, oft did she pause for the toll of the bell, 
And she heard but the breathings of night in 
the air ; 
Long, long did she gaze on the watery swell, 
And she saw but the foam of the white billow 
there. 

And often as midnight its veil would undraw, 
As she look'd at the light of the moon in the 
stream, 

She thought 'twas his helmet of silver she saw, 
As the curl of the surge glitter'd high in th e beam . 

And now the third night was begemming the sky, 
Poor Rose on the cold dewy margent reclin'd, 

There wept till the tear almost froze in her eye, 
When, — hark ! — 'twas the bell that came deep 
in the wind ! 

She startled, and saw, through the glimmering 
shade, 
A form o'er the waters in majesty glide; 
She knew 'twas her love, though his cheek was 
decay'd, 
And his helmet of silver was wash'd by the tide, 

K 



130 POEMS. 

Was this what the seer of the cave had foretold? — 
Dim,, dim through the phantom the moon shot 
a gleam ; 

*Twas Reuben, but, ah ! he was deathly and cold, 
And fleeted away like the spell of a dream ! 

Twice, thrice did he rise, and as often she thought 
From the bank to embrace him, but never, ah ! 
never ! 

Then, springing beneath, at a billow she caught, 
And sunk to repose on its bosom for ever ! 






POEMS. 131 



THE RING*. 
A TALE. 



Annulus ille viri. Ovid. Amor. lib. ii. eleg. 15. 



The happy day at length arrived 
When Rupert was to wed 

The fairest maid in Saxony, 
And take her to his bed. 



* I should be sorry to think that my friend had any 
serious intentions of frightening the nursery by this story : 
I rather hope — though the manner of it leads me to doubt 
— that his design was to ridicule that distempered taste 
which prefers those monsters of the fancy to the " speciosa 
miracula" of true poetic imagination. 

I find, by a note in the manuscript, that he met with this 
story in a German author, Fromman upon Fascination, 
Book iii. part vi. ch. 18. On consulting the work, I perceive 
that Fromman quotes it from Beluacensis, among many 
other stories equally diabolical and interesting. E. 



132 POEMS. 

As soon as morn was in the sky, 

The feast and sports began ; 
The men admir'd the happy maid, 

The maids the happy man. 

In many a sweet device of mirth 

The day was passed along ; 
And some the featly dance amus'd, 

And some the dulcet song. 

The younger maids with Isabel 
Disported through the bowers, 

And deck'd her robe, and crownM her head 
With motley bridal flowers. 

The matrons all in rich attire, 

Within the castle walls, 
Sat listening to the choral strains 

That echo'd through the halls. 

Young Rupert and his friends repair'd 

Unto a spacious court, 
To strike the bounding tennis-ball 

In feat and manly sport. 



POEMS. lj$ 

The bridegroom on his finger had 

The wedding-ring so bright, 
Which was to grace the lily hand 

Of Isabel that night. 

And fearing he might break the gem, 

Or lose it in the play, 
He look'cl around the court, to see 

Where he the ring might lay. 

Now in the court a statue stood, 
Which there full long had been : 

It was a Heathen goddess, or 
Perhaps a Heathen queen. 

Upon its marble finger then 

He tried the ring to fit ; 
And, thinking it was safest there, 

Thereon he fasten' d it. 

And now the tennis sports went on, 

Till they were wearied all, 
And messengers announc'd to them 

Their dinner in the hall. 



134 POEMS. 

Young Rupert for his wedding-ring 

Unto the statue went ; 
But, oh ! how was he shock* d to find 

The marble finger bent ! 

The hand was closM upon the ring 
With firm and mighty clasp ; 

In vain he tried, and tried, and tried, 
He could not loose the grasp ! 

How sore surprised was Rupert's mind — 
As well his mind might be ; 

" Pll come," quoth he, " at night again, 
When none are here to see." 

He went unto the feast, and much 

He thought upon his ring ; 
And much he wonder* d what could mean 

So very strange a thing ! 

The feast was o'er, and to the court 

He went without delay, 
ResolvM to break the marble hand 

And force the ring away I 



POEMS. 135 

But, mark a stranger wonder still — 

The ring was there no more ; 
Yet was the marble hand ungrasp'd, 

And open as before ! 

He search' d the base, and all the court, 

And nothing could he rind, 
But to the castle did return 

With sore bewildered mind. 

Within he found them all in mirth, 

The night in dancing flew ; 
The youth another ring procured, 

And none the adventure knew. 

And now the priest has joinM their hands, 

The hours of love advance ! 
Rupert almost forgets to think 

Upon the morn's mischance. 

Within the bed fair Isabel 

In blushing sweetness lay, 
Like flowers, half-open'd by the dawn, 

And waiting for the day. 



136 POEMS. 

And Rupert, by her lovely side, 

In youthful beauty glows, 
Like Phoebus, when he bends to cast 

His beams upon a rose ! 

And here my song shall leave them both, 

Nor let the rest be told, 
But for the horrid, horrid tale 

It yet has to unfold ! 

Soon Rupert, twist his bride and him, 
A death-cold carcass found ; 

He saw it not, but thought he felt 
Its arms embrace him round. 

He started up, and then ret urn* d, 
But found the phantom still ; 

In vain he shrunk, it clipped him round, 
With damp and deadly chill ! 

And when he bent, the earthy lips 

A kiss of horror gave ; 
^Twas like the smell from charnel vaults 

Or from the mouldering- grave ! 



POEMS. 137 

111 fated Rupert, wild and loud 

Thou cried st to thy wife, 
" Oh ! save me from this horrid fiend, 

My Isabel! my life!" 

But Isabel had nothing seen, 

She look'd around in vain ; 
And much she mourned the mad conceit 

That rack'd her Rupert's brain. 

At length from this invisible 

These words to Rupert came : 
(Oh God ! while he did hear the words, 

What terrors shook his frame ! ) 

" Husband ! husband ! I've the ring 

Thou gav'st to-day to me ; 
And thou'rt to me for ever wed, 

As I am wed to thee !" 

And all the night the demon lay 

Cold-chilling by his side, 
And strain'd him with such deadly grasp, 

He thought he should have died ! 



138 POEMS. 

But when the dawn of day was near, 
The horrid phantom fled, 

And left th' affrighted youth to weep 
By Isabel in bed. 

All, all that day a gloomy cloud 
Was seen on Rupert's brows ; 

Fair Isabel was likewise sad, 
But strove to cheer her spouse. 

And, as the day advanced, he thought 
Of coming night with fear : 

Ah ! that he must with terror view 
The bed that should be dear ! 

At length the second night arriv'd, 
Again their couch they press'd ; 

Poor Rupert hop'd that all was o'er, 
And looked for love and rest. 

But oh ! when midnight came, again 
The fiend was at his side, 

And, as it strain' d him in its grasp, 
With howl exulting cried : — 



POEMS. 139 

" Husband ! husband ! Pve the ring, 

The ring thou gav'st to me ; 
And thou'rt to me for ever wed, 

As I am wed to thee !" 

In agony of wild despair, 

He started from the bed ; 
And thus to his bewildered wife 

The trembling Rupert said : 

" Oh Isabel ! dost thou not see 

A shape of horrors here, 
That strains me to the deadly kiss, 

And keeps me from my dear?" 

" No, no, my love ! my Rupert, I 

No shape of horrors see ; 
And much I mourn the phantasy 

That keeps my dear from me !" 

This night, just like the night before, 

In terrors pass'd away, 
Nor did the demon vanish thence 

Before the dawn of day. 



140 POEMS. 

Says Rupert then, " My Isabel, 

Dear partner of my woe, 
To Father Austin's holy cave 

This instant will I go." 

Now Austin was a reverend man, 

Who acted wonders maint, 
Whom all the country round believed 

A devil or a saint ! 

To Father Austin's holy cave 
Then Rupert went full straight, 

And told him all, and ask'd him how 
To remedy his fate. 

The father heard the youth, and then 

RetirM awhile to pray ; 
And, having pray'd for half an hour, 

Return' d, and thus did say : 

" There is a place where four roads meet, 

Which I will tell to thee ; 
Be there this eve, at fall of night, 

And list what thou shalt see. 



POEMS. 141 

" Thou' It see a group of figures pass 

In strange disorder' d crowd, 
Traveling by torch-light through the roads, 

With noises strange and loud. 

" And one that's high above the rest, 

Terrific towering o'er, 
Will make thee know r him at a glance, 

So I need say no more. 

<{ To him from me these tablets give, 

They'll soon be understood ; 
Thou need'st not fear, but give them straight, 

I've scrawl'd them with my blood !" 

The night-fall came, and Rupert all 

In pale amazement went 
To where the cross-roads met, and he 

Was by the Father sent. 

And lo ! a group of figures came 

In strange disorder' d crowd, 
Traveling by torch-light through the roads, 

With noises strange and loud. 



142 POEMS. 

And, as the gloomy train advanced, 

Rupert beheld from far 
A female form of wanton mien 

Seated upon a car. 

And Rupert, as he gaz'd upon 

The loosely vested dame, 
Thought of the marble statue's look, 

For hers was just the same. 

Behind her wahVd a hideous form, 
With eyeballs flashing death ; 

Whene'er he breathM, a sulphur'd smoke 
Came burning in his breath ! 

He seemM the first of all the crowd, 

Terrific towering o'er ; 
" Yes, yes," said Rupert, " this is he, 

And I need ask no more." 

Then slow he went, and to this fiend 

The tablets trembling gave, 
Who look'd and read them with a yell 

That would disturb the grave. 



POEMS. 143 

And when he saw the blood-scrawlM name, 

His eyes with fury shine ; 
"I thought," cries he, " his time was out, 

But he must soon be mine \" 

Then darting at the youth a look 

Which rent his soul with fear, 
He went unto the female fiend, 

And whisper' d in her ear. 

The female fiend no sooner heard 

Than, with reluctant look, 
The very ring that Rupert lost, 

She from her finger took. 

And, giving it unto the youth, 

With eyes that breath'd of hell, 
She said, in that tremendous voice, 

Which he remember'd well : 

" In Austin's name take back the ring, 

The ring thou gav'st to me ; 
And thou'rt to me no longer wed, 

Nor longer I to thee." 



144 POEMS. 

He took the ring, the rabble pass'd, 
He home return* d again ; 

His wife was then the happiest fair, 
The happiest he of men. 



POEMS. 145 



SONG. 



ON THE BIRTHDAY OF MRS. 



WRITTEN IN IRELAND. 



Of all my happiest hours of joy, 
And even I have had my measure, 

When hearts were full, and ev'ry eye 
Has kindled with the beams of pleasure ! 

Such hours as this I ne'er was given, 
So dear to friendship, dear to blisses ; 

Young Love himself looks down from heaven, 
To smile on such a day as this is ! 

Then oh ! my friends, this hour improve, 
Let's feel as if we ne'er could sever; 

And may the birth of her we love 
Be thus with joy remember'^ ever! 

L 



146 POEMS. 

Oh ! banish ev'ry thought to-night, 

Which could disturb our soul's communion ! 
Abandon' d thus to dear delight, 

We'll e'en for once forget the Union I 

On that let statesmen try their pow'rs, 

And tremble o'er the rights they'd die for ; 

The union of the soul be ours, 
And ev'ry union else we sigh for ! 

Then oh ! my friends, this hour improve, 
Let's feel as if we ne'er could sever ; 

And may the birth of her we love 
Be thus with joy remember'd ever ! 

In ev'ry eye around I mark 

The feelings of the heart o'erfl owing ; 
From ev'ry soul I catch the spark 

Of sympathy, in friendship glowing ! 

Oh ! could such moments ever fly ; 

Oh ! that we ne'er were doom'd to lose 'em ; 
And all as bright as Charlotte's eye, 

And all as pure as Charlotte's bosom. 



POEMS. 147 

But oh ! my friends, this hour improve, 
Let's feel as if we ne'er could sever ; 

And may the birth of her we love 
Be thus with joy remember'd ever ! 

For me, whate'er my span of years, 
Whatever sun may light my roving ; 

Whether I waste my life in tears, 

Or live, as now, for mirth and loving ! 

This day shall come with aspect kind, 
Wherever fate may cast your rover ; 

He'll think of those he left behind, 

And drink a health to bliss that's over ! 

Then oh ! my friends, this hour improve, 
Let's feel as if we ne'er could sever ; 

And may the birth of her we love 
Be thus with joy remember'd ever 1 



148 POEMS. 



TO A BOY, WITH A WATCH. 



WRITTEN FOR A FRIEND. 



Is it not sweet, beloved youth, 

To rove through Erudition's bowers, 

And cull the golden fruits of truth, 
And gather Fancy's brilliant flowers ? 

And is it not more sweet than this, 
To feel thy parents' hearts approving, 

And pay them back in sums of bliss 
The dear, the endless debt of loving? 

It must be so to thee, my youth ; 

With this idea toil is lighter ; 
This sweetens all the fruits of truth, 

And makes the flowers of fancy brighter ! 



POEMS. 149 

The little gift we send thee, boy, 

May sometimes teach thy soul to ponder, 

If indolence or siren joy 

Should ever tempt that soul to wander. 

'Twill tell thee that the winged day 

Can ne'er be chain'd by man's endeavour; 

That life and time shall fade away, 

While heav'n and virtue bloom for ever ! 



150 POEMS. 



FRAGMENTS OF COLLEGE EXERCISES. 



Nobilitas sola est atque unica virtus. Juv. 



Mark those proud boasters of a splendid line, 
Like gilded ruins, mouldering while they shine, 
How heavy sits that weight of alien show, 
Like martial helm upon an infant's brow ; 
Those borrowed splendours, whose contrasting 

light 
Throws back the native shades in deeper night. 

Ask the proud train who glory's shade pursue, 
Where are the ails by which that glory grew ? 
The genuine virtues that with eagle-gaze 
Sought young Renown in all her orient blaze ! 
Where is the heart by chymic truth refin'd, 
Th' exploring soul, whose eye had read mankind? 
Where are the links that twin'd, with heav'nly art, 
His country's interest round the patriot's heart ? 



POEMS. 151 

Where is the tongue that scattered words of fire? 
The spirit breathing through the poet's lyre ? 
Do these descend with all that tide of fame 
Which vainly waters an unfruitful name ? 



152 POEMS. 



Justum bellum quibus necessarium, et pia arma quibus nulla nisi in 
armis relinquitur spes. Livy. 



Is there no call, no consecrating cause, 
Approv'd by Heav'n, ordain'd by nature's laws, 
Where justice flies the herald of oar way, 
And truth's pure beams upon the banners play P 

Yes, there's a call sweet as an angel's breath 
To slumb'ring babes, or innocence in death ; 
And urgent as the tongue of heav'n within, 
When the mind's balance trembles upon sin. 

Oh ! 'tis our country's voice, whose claim should 

meet 
And echo in the soul's most deep retreat ; 
Along the heart's responding string should run, 
Nor let a tone there vibrate — but the one ! 



POEMS. 153 



SONG*. 



Mary, I believed thee true, 

And I was blest in thus believing ; 

But now I mourn that e'er I knew 
A girl so fair and so deceiving ! 

Few have ever lov'd like me, — 

Oh ! I have lov'd thee too sincerely ! 

And few have e'er deceiv'd like thee,' — 
Alas ! deceiv'd me too severely ! 

Fare thee well ! yet think awhile 

On one whose bosom bleeds to doubt thee ; 
Who now would rather trust that smile, 

And die with thee than live without thee ; 



* I believe these words were adapted by Mr. Little to 
the pathetic Scotch air " Galla Water." 



154 POEMS. 

Fare thee well ! Pll think of thee, 
Thou leav'st me many a bitter token ; 

For see, distracting woman ! see, 

My peace is gone, my heart is broken !- 
Fare thee well ! 






POEMS. 155 



SONG. 



Why does azure deck the sky? 

'Tis to be like thy looks of blue ; 
Why is red the rose's dye? 

Because it is thy blushes' hue. 
All that's fair, by Love's decree, 
Has been made resembling thee ! 

Why is falling snow so white, 
But to be like thy bosom fair ? 

Why are solar beams so bright ? 

That they may seem thy golden hair ! 

All that's bright, by Love's decree, 

Has been made resembling thee ! 



156 POEMS. 

Why are nature's beauties felt ? 

Oh ! 'tis thine in her we see ! 
Why has music power to melt ? 

Oh ! because it speaks like thee. 
All that's sweet, by Love's decree, 
Has been made resembling thee ! 



POEMS. 157 

THE NATAL GENIUS. 

a Bream. 

TO , 

THE MORNING OF HER BIRTHDAY. 



In witching slumbers of the night, 
I dreamed I was the airy sprite 

That on thy natal moment smiPd ; 
And thought I wafted on my wing 
Those flowers which in Elysium spring, 

To crown my lovely mortal child. 

• 
With olive-branch I bound thy head, 
Heart's-ease along thy path I shed, 

Which was to bloom through all thy years ; 
Nor yet did I forget to bind 
Love's roses, with his myrtle twin'd, 

And dew'd by sympathetic tears. 



158 POEMS. 

Such was the wild but precious boon 
Which Fancy, at her magic noon, 

Bade me to Nona's image pay — 
Oh ! were I, love, thus doomed to be 
Thy little guardian deity, 

How blest around thy steps I'd play ! 

Thy life should softly steal along, 
Calm as some lonely shepherd's song 

That's heard at distance in the grove ; 
No cloud should ever shade thy sky, 
No thorns along thy pathway lie, 

But all be sunshine, peace, and love ! 

The wing of time should never brush 
Thy dewy lip's luxuriant flush, 

To bid its roses with 'ring die ; 
Nor age itself, though dim and dark, 
Should ever quench a single spark 

That flashes from my Nona's eye ! 



POEMS. 159 



MORALITY. 



A FAMILIAR EPISTLE. 



ADDRESSED TO 



J. AT— NS— N, ESQ. M. R. I. A. * 



Though long at school and college dozing, 
On books of rhyme and books of prosing, 
And copying from their moral pages 
Fine recipes for forming sages ; 
Though long with those divines at school, 
Who think to make us good by rule ; 



* The gentleman to whom this poem is addressed is the 
author of some esteemed works, and was Mr. Little's most 
particular friend. I have heard Mr. Little very frequently 
speak of him as one in whom " the elements were so mixed," 
that neither in his head nor heart had nature left any defi- 
ciency. E. 



160 POEMS. 

Who, in methodic forms advancing, 
Teaching morality like dancing, 
Tell us, for Heav'n or money's sake, 
What steps we are through life to take : 
Though thus, my friend, so long employed. 
And so much midnight oil destroy'd, 
I must confess, my searches past, 
I only learn' d to doubt at last. 

I find the doctors and the sages 
Have differ'd in all climes and ages, 
And two in fifty scarce agree 
On what is pure morality ! 
'Tis like the rainbow's shifting zone, 
And every vision makes its own. 

The doctors of the Porch advise, 
As modes of being great and wise, 
That we should cease to own or know 
The luxuries that from feeling flow. 

" Reason alone must claim direction. 
And Apathy's the souPs perfection. 



POEMS. 161 

Like a. dull lake the heart must lie ; 
Nor passion's gale nor pleasure's sigh, 
Though heav'n the breeze, the breath supplied, 
Must curl the wave or swell the tide !" 

Such was the rigid Zeno's plan 
To form his philosophic man ; 
Such were the modes he taught mankind 
To weed the garden of the mind ; 
They tore away some weeds, 'tis true, 
But all the Jlow'rs were ravish'd too ! 

Now listen to the wily strains, 
Which, on Cyrene's sandy plains, 
When Pleasure, nymph with loosen'd zone, 
Usurp' d the philosophic throne : 
Hear what the courtly sage's* tongue 
To his surrounding pupils sung : 

" Pleasure's the only noble end 
To which all human pow'rs should tend, 
And Virtue gives her heav'nly lore, 
But to make Pleasure please us more ! 

* Aristippus. 

M 



162 POEMS. 

Wisdom and she were both designed 
To make the senses more refln'd, 
That man might revel, free from cloying, 
Then most a sage when most enjoying !" 

Is this morality ? — Oh, no ! 
E'en I a wiser path could show. 
The flower within this vase confined, 
The pure, the unfading flow'r of mind 
Must not throw all its sweets away 
Upon a mortal mould of clay : 
No, no ! its richest breath should rise 
In virtue's incense to the skies ! 

But thus it is, all sects we see 
Have watch- words of morality : 
Some cry out Venus, others Jove ; 
Here 'tis religion, there 'tis love ! 
But while they thus so widely wander, 
While mystics dream, and doctors ponder ; 
And some, in dialectics firm, 
Seek virtue in a middle term ; 
While thus they strive, in Heaven's defiance, 
To chain morality with science ; 



POEMS. 163 

The plain good man, whose actions teach 
More virtue than a sect can preach, 
Pursues his course, unsagely blest, 
His tutor whisp'ring in his breast : 
Nor could he act a purer part, 
Though he had Tully all by heart; 
And when he drops the tear on woe, 
He little knows or cares to know 
That Epictetus blanVd that tear, 
By Heav'n approv'd, to virtue dear 1 

Oh ! when Pve seen the morning beam 
Floating within the dimpled stream ; 
While Nature, wakening from the night, 
Has just put on her robes of light, 
Have I, with cold optician's gaze, 
Explor'd the doctrine of those rays ? 
No, pedants, I have left to you 
Nicely to sep'rate hue from hue : 
Go, give that moment up to art, 
When Heav'n and nature claim the heart ; 
And, dull to all their best attraction, 
Go — measure angles of refraction ! 



164 POEMS. 

While I, in feeling's sweet romance, 
Look on each daybeam as a glance 
From the great eye of Him above, 
Wak'ninof his world with looks of love ! 



THE END. 



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